CANZONI. 




J.L. 1/..,. /;.., 



CANZONI 




vBY 

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'n^\/T>ALY 



PICTURES BY JOHN SLOAN 

Eleventh Thousand, November, 1914 
Jt 

PHILADELPHIA 

DAVID McKAY. Publisher 

604-C8 S. Washington Square 






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Copyright, 1906 by T. A. DALY. 
First Edition, October igo6. 
Second Edition, November i<po6. 
Third Edition, Februaiy igoy. 
Fourth Edition, A ugusi 1907. 
Fifth Edition, August IQ08. 
Sixth Edition, June i^og. 
Seventh Edition, June 1910. 
Eighth Hdition, Apt il igii. 
Ninth Edition, April IQ12. 
Tenth Edition, April 1913. 
Eleventh Edition, Novejuber 1914. 






m 



To My Wife 

AND 

Children. 



CONTENTS. 

'Da Comica Man 13 

Good Morning 15 

Carlotta's Indecision 17 

Ballade to the Women 19 

Mia Carlotta 21 

In the August Night 24 

The Song of the Thrush 26 

Da Blue Devil 28 

Father O'Shea and Father M'Crea .... 30 

Padre Angelo ^ ;^;^ 

Hearts Apart ^7 

Ballade of Those Present 38 

Leetla Humpy Jeem 40 

If You Were a Boy 42 

Cornaylius Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan 45 

A New Patriot 47 

House and Home 49 

Dolce Far Niente 51 

A Dixie Lullaby 52 

Da Greata Stronga Man 54 

9 



lO CONTENTS. 

To A Wee Coquette 56 

The Ouches 57 

Between Two Loves ......,., 58 

Father Dan O'Malley 61 

Content 64 

W'at'sa Use? 65 

Kiss Her 66 

Dear Unselfish Dan ..,,,.... 68 

Her Answer 70 

Kitty's Graduation 71 

An Italian King 76 

Da Pritta Lady ^-^ 

A Frosty Morning ..,,.,... 79 

To the Growler ...,,. 81 

Deesa Greata Holiday 82 

The National Encampment 84. 

At Castle Garden 85 

Da Besta Frand 89' 

The Wisdom of the Sparrows 921 

The Modest Colleen 94 

The Old Parishioner 96 

Leetla Giorgio Washeenton 98 

Ballade of Modest Heroes loi 

The Building Inspector 103 

The Irish Bachelor 105 

To A Plain Sweetheart 107 

The Conquest of the North . , 108 



CONTENTS. II 

A Book Not "Givable" no 

Da Musica Man 113 

The Moderate Drinker 114 

Da 'Mericana Girl 116 

Faint Heart 118 

Da Leetla Boy 119 

Ballade of Family Names , , 122 

Da Styleesha Lady 124 

Almost ^. 126 

Carey, the Kill-Joy 128 

A Lesson in Politics . . , 130 

Mistletoe and Holly 132 

The Irish National Bird ....... 133 

Handicapped , . . 134 

Ballade of the Poor Tourist 136 

The Fighting Race , , . 138 

Padre Domineec , . 139 

A Fancy Nicotian 141 

Un Lazzarone , . . 144 

Bedfellows , , . . 146 

Those Dirty Little Fingers ....... 148 

Da Younga 'Merican 151 

Night in Bachelor's Hall ..,,,.. 153 

The Indomitable Celt 155 

Da Family Man , . . 156 

Da Fightin' Irishman • , . 157 

The Wedding Guest ..,..,,.. 159 



12 CONTENTS. 

The Spoiled Child i6i 

Da Styleesha Wife 163 

The Kettle's Song of Home 164 

To the Atheist 165 

At Home 167 

To AN Old Lover 168 

Treasure Trove 170 

The Little Boy , .... 171 

A Song to One 172 



DA COMICA MAN. 

GiACOBBE Finelli so funny, O! My! 
By tweestin' hees face an' by weenkin' hees eye 
He maka you laugh teell you theenk you weell die. 
He don't gotta say som'theeng; all he e^s do 
Ees maka da face an', how moocha you try. 
You no can help laugh w'en he lookin' at you— 
Giacobbe Finelli so funny, O! My! 

I deeg een da tranch weeth Giacobbe wan day; 
Giacobbe ees toss up da spadefulla clay, 
An' beeg Irish boss he ees gat een da way! 
Da boss he ees look at Giacobbe an' swear 

So bad as he can. but Giacobbe, so sly. 
He maka pretand he no see he was dere — 
Giacobbe Finelli so funny, O! My! 
13 



14 DA COMICA MAN. 



But w'en da boss turn an' ees starta for go, 
Giacobbe look up an' he mak' da face — So! 
I laugh an' I laugh lika deesa — Ho! ho! 
Da boss he com' back an' he poncha my head, 
He smasha my nose an' he blacka my eye — 
I no can help laugh eef I gona be dead. 
Giacobbe Finelli so funny, O! My! 



GOOD MORNING. 

Day dawns, and bids the blushing sky 

"Good morning!" 
The flute-voiced birds take up the cry: 

"Good morning!" 
And nearer home, beneath the eaves, 
The gnarled old maple's tender leaves 
That shivered in the midnight rain, 
Now whisper at my window-pane: 

"Good morning!" 
The genial sun peeps o'er the hill 
And laughs across my window sill. 
Eyes quiver under sleepy lids — 
This is the King himself who bids 

"Good morning!" 

I rise and ope the window wide. 
The sun-kissed breezes charge and ride 
Straight through the breach in merry rout, 
And scale the walls and fairly shout: 
"Good morning!" 
15 



l6 GOOD MORNING. 

They make me captive to the King, 
They pluck at me and bid me sing 
Their paean to the Golden Day, 
Whose conquering slogan is their gay 
"Good morning!" 

They frolic here, they scamper there, 
They clutch the singing birds in air, 
On all the world their music beats 
Until the captive world repeats: 

"Good morning!" 
Heart calls to heart. The surly wight, 
Who scorned his neighbor yesternight. 
With smiling visage stops to greet 
That neighbor in the busy street: 

"Good morning!" 

O! joyous day! O! smile of God, 
To hearten all who toil and plod; 
We hail thee, Conqueror and King! 
We hug our golden chains and sing: 
"Good morningl" 



CARLOTTA'S INDECISION. 

I WOULD lika mooch to know 
Why Carlotta treat me so. 
Evra time I ask eef she 
Ees gon* marry weetha me. 
First she smila, den she frown. 
Den she look me up an' down. 
Den she shak' her head an' say: 
"I gon' tal you Chrees'mas Day.'* 

Once w'en we are out for walk 
An' I am begin to talk, 
She say: "Don'ta speak no more. 
O! com', see dees jew'ler store. 
My! jus' look dat di'mon' reeng! 
Eet ees justa sweetes' theeng! 
Only seexa-feefty, see?" 
1/ 



l8 CARLOTTA'S INDECISION, 

Dat's da way she teasa me, 
Findin' theengs for talka 'bout 
Jus' for mak' me shut my mout'. 
Bimeby w'en she turn for go 
I say: "Com', I musta know — " 
"O!" she stamp her foot an' say: 
"I gon' tal you Chrees'mas Day." 

I would lika mooch to know 
Why Carlotta treat me so. 
W'ata for she always say: 
"I gon' tal you Chrees'mas Day"? 



BALLADE TO THE WOMEN. 

The poets, extolling the graces 

Of sweet femininity, pay- 
Particular court, in most cases. 

To Phyllis or Phoebe or Fay. 

"A toast to the ladies!" they say- 
As "ladies" they always address them — 

And bid us bow down to them. Nay! 
We sing the plain "women," God bless themi 

Though light-o'-loves, frail as the laces 

And satins in which they array 
The charms of their forms and their faces. 

Are "ladies" for their little day. 

The feet of such idols are clay. 
Our wives, when we come to possess them, 

IMust loom to us larger than they. 
We sing the plain "women," God bless them! 
19 



20 BALLADE TO THE WOMEN. 

Sweet creatures who make the home-places 
As cheerful and bright as they may, 

Whose feminine beauty embraces 
A heart to illumine the way, 
Though skies may be ever so gray; 

Good mothers, whose children caress them 
And hail them as chums at their play — 

We sing the plain "women," God bless them! 

ENVOY. 

O! Queen, teach the "ladies," we pray. 
Whenever vain notions oppress them. 

Though idly their charms we survey, 

We sing the plain "women," God bless them! 



MIA CARLOTTA. 

Giuseppe, da bjirber, ees greata for "mash," 

He gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache. 

Good clo'es an' good styla an' playnta good cash. 

W'enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street, 
Da peopla dey taika, "how nobby! how neat! 
How softa da handa, how smalla da feet." 

He raisa hees hat an' he shaka hees curls, 
An' smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls; 
O! many da heart of da seelly young girls 

He gotta. 
Yes, playnta he gotta — 

But notta 

Carlotta! 

Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye. 
An' lika da steam engine puffa an' sigh. 
For catcha Carlotta w'en she ees go by. 

21 



MIA CARLOTTA. 23 



Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air, 

An' look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare, 

As eef she no see dere ees som'body dere. 

Giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash, 
He gotta da clo'es an' da bigga mustache, 
He gotta da seelly young girls for da "mash," 

But notta — 
You bat my life, notta — 

Carlotta. 

I gotta I 



IN THE AUGUST NIGHT. 

The day is done, with all the heat 
That swathed the swooning city. 

The dusk that falls so cool and sweet 
Is doubly sweet with pity. 

To those the blazing sun oppressed, 
What time he played the hector, 

The night-wind comes from out the west, 
A Hebe bearing nectar. 

Impartially she gives to all 

A blessed draught ecstatic; 
The ennuye in pleasure's hall, 

The sick child in the attic. 

She seeks the squalid haunts of sin. 

With gentle self-abasement, 
She steals with inspiration in 

The poet's open casement. 
24 



IN THE AUGUST NIGHT. 25 

I watch the pensive poet there, 

Beside his window dreaming. 
To him the night, so calm and fair. 

With rhapsodies is teeming. 

Up through the fields of twinkling spheres 

His raptured soul is winging, 
And in his fancy's flight he hears 

The very heavens singing. 

Sing, poet! Sing the night-wind's song, 
And weave your fancies through it; 

Some heart, world-weary, in the throng 
Will beat responsive to it. 



THE SONG OF THE THRUSH. 

Ah! the May was grand this mornin'! 

Shure, how could I feel forlorn in 
Such a land, when tree and flower tossed their kisses to 
the breeze? 

Could an Irish heart be quiet 

While the Spring was runnin' riot, 
An' the birds of free America were singin' in the trees? 

In the songs that they were singin' 

No familiar note was ringin', 
But I strove to imitate them an' I whistled like a lad. 

O! my heart was warm to love them 

For the very newness of them — 
For the ould songs that they helped me to forget — an' I 
was glad. 

So I mocked the feathered choir 
To my hungry heart's desire, 
An' I gloried in the comradeship that made their joy my 
own, 
Till a new note sounded, stillin' 
All the rest. A thrush was trillin'! 
Ah! the thrush I left behind me in the fields about 
Athlone! 

26 



THE SONG OF THE THRUSH. 27 

Where, upon the whitethorn swayin', 
He was minstrel of the Mayin', 
In my days of love an' laughter that the years have laid 
at rest; 
Here again his notes were ringin'! 
But I'd lost the heart for singin' — 
Ah! the song I could not answer was the one I knew 
the best. 



DA BLUE DEVIL. 

Som'time w'en I no feela good 

An' beezaness ees flat, 
I gat so blue I weesh I could 

Be justa dog or cat. 
W'en evratheeng ees gona wrong 

An' I mus' feex eet right, 
I gat deesgust' for work so long 

An' theenk would be delight 
For be a leetla cat, baycause 

Da only work she do 
Ees wash her face an' leeck her paws. 

An' after dat she through. 
Eef you be dog you jus* can go 

For sleepin' een da sun, 
An' you don't gat a wife, you know, 

For aska you for mon*. 
Eet's mak' no odds how you behave 

Eef you are animal; 
You don't gat any soul to save, 

An' when you die, dat's alll 



DA BLUE DEVIL. 29 



O! my, how easy kind of life 

For justa nevva mind, 
To run away an' leave your wife 

An' evratheeng bayhind! 

Dees ees da way I feela w'en 

I'm blue, but, alia same, 
W'en I am feel all right agen 

Eet mak'sa me ashame'. 
W'en devil gat eenside o' me 

For mak' me feel like dat, 
I guess I would not even be 

A decen' dog or cat. 



FATHER O'SHEA AND FATHER McCREA. 

Ye might search the world's ends, 
But ye'd find no such friends 
As Father O'Shea an' Father McCrea. 
Very caustic in wit 

Was Father O'Shea, 
But as droll every bit 
Was Father McCrea; 
An' O! such a volley o' fun they were poking 

The wan at the other, as good as a play, 
Wid their ready replies an' their innocint jokin'. 
When Father O'Shea met Father McCrea. 

Now, upon a March Sunday it came for to pass 

Good Father McCrea 
Preached a very fine sermon an' then, afther Mass, 

Met Father O'Shea. 
*' 'Twas a very appropriate sermon for Lent 

Ye delivered this minute. 
For the season o' fastin' 'twas very well meant — 
I could find no meat in it!" 

Said Father O'Shea. 
30 



FATHER O'SHEA AND FATHER M'CREA. 31 

Then, quick as the laughther that gleamed in his eye, 

Good Father McCrea 
Raised a finger o' protest an' made his reply 

To Father O'Shea. 
"Faith, I'll have to be workin' a miracle next, 

To comply wid your wishes. 
Dare you ask me for meat, my dear sir, when ths lext 
Was 'the loaves an' the fishes'?" 
Said Father McCrea. 

Very caustic in wit 

Was Father O'Shea, 
But as droll every bit 
Was Father McCrea; 
Though ye'd search the world's ends 
Ye would find no such friends 
As Father O'Shea an' Father McCrea. 



PADRE ANGELO. 

Padre Angelo he say: 
"Why you no gat married, eh? 
You are maka playnta mon' 
For gon' taka wife, my son." 
"No; I am too beeza man 
'Tandin' dees peanutta stan*. 
I no gatta time for play 
Fooleeshness weeth girls," I say. 
"My! you don'ta tal me so?" 
Ees say Padre Angelo. 

Bimeby, mebbe two, t'ree day, 
Younga girl she com' an' say: 
"Padre Angelo ees here? 
No? Eet eesa vera queer! 
Heesa housakeepa say 
33 



34 PADRE ANGELO, 

I gon' find heerri deesa way." 
While she eesa speaka so 
Ees com' Padre Angelo. 
"Rosa I you are look for me?" 
He ees say to her, an' she 
Say: "O! please, go homa, queeck. 
You are want' for som' wan seeck. 
I am sand for find you here." 
"Ah! da seecka-call, my dear. 
Com','* say Padre Angelo, 
"Deesa younga man ees Joe; 
Shaka han's bayfore we go. " 
So I am shak' han's weeth her — 
Leetla han' so sof like fur — 
Den she bow to me an' go 
Weetha Padre Angelo. 

Bimeby, s'pose two, t'ree day more, 
She ees com* jus' like bayfore. 
An' she aska me: "You know 
Where ees Padre Angelo? 
Housakeep' she tal me wait 
Eef he don't be vera late." 
So I tal her taka seat 
An' to hav' som* fruit for eat. 
Den I talk to her an' she 
Smila sweet an' talk to me; 



PADRE ANGELO. 35 

How long time I do not know. 

Den com' Padre Angelo. 

"O!" she say, "go homa queeck, 

You are want' for som' wan seeck." 

"My!" he say, "dees seecka-call! 

I am gat no peace at all. 

O! well, com', my dear," he say, 

An' he takin' her away. 

I am sad for see her go 

Weetha Padre Angelo. 

Many times ees lika dat. 
Peopla always seem for gat 
Seecka when he ees away. 
Rosa com' mos' evra day, 
An' som' time she gatta stay 
Pretta longa time, you know, 
Teell com* Padre Angelo. 
Steell I no gat any keeck 
How mooch peopla gatta seeck; 
I am feela glad dey do — 
Rosa, she no keeckin', too. 

Lasta night my Rosa she 

Go to Padre weetha me, 

An' I tal heem: "Pretta soon— 

Mebbe so da firsta June — 



36 



PADRE ANGELO. 



Rosa gona be my wife!" 

He ees s'prise', you bat my lifel 

"Wat?" he say, an' rub hees eyes, 




"Dees ees soocha glada s'prise! 
My! you don'ta tal me so?'* 
Ees say Padre Angelo. 



m^ 



HEARTS APART. 

To count the days until we twain 
May read each other's eyes again. 
And dwell once more in Arcady, 
Is all my joy away from thee- 
Is all my joy and all my pain. 

When leaden-footed minutes wane 
To hours that burden heart and brain, 

'Twere but a useless agony 
To count the days, 
Did thy most gracious heart not deign 
To bid my own heart entertain 

The hope of better things to be; 

Did I not know thy constancy 
And that, until we meet again, 
Two count the days. 



37 



BALLADE OF THOSE PRESENT, 

To the papers whose trade is supplying 

The news in a gossipy way, 
All the workaday world should be hieing, 

Its compliments grateful to pay. 

How kind to the public are they 
When they publish our names in their pleasant 

Descriptions of ball or soiree 
As "among the most prominent present!'* 

When we sit at the banquet board, trying 

To tickle our palates blase, 
Comes a thought that is more gratifying 

Than all the Lucullan array; 

More sweet than the sherry's bouquet, 
Or the flavor of succulent pheasant — 

The thought of appearing next day 
As "among the most prominent present.** 
38 



BALLADE OF THOSE PRESENT. 

Since the common folk simply are dying 

To know what we do or we say, 
It were really a shame our denying 

To them all the pleasure we may. 

Then the news let the papers convey 
To the shopman, mechanic and peasant. 

Noting lis at the dance or the play 
As "among the most prominent present.'* 

ENVOY. 

St. Peter, receive us, we pray. 

When we've done with this world evanescent. 
Assigning us places for aye 

As "among the most prominent present." 



39 



LEETLA HUMPY JEEM. 

Da 'Merican boys eesa vera bad lot, 

Dey steala peanutta, banan'. 
An' evratheeng gooda for eatin' I got, 

An' mak' all da troubla dey can. 
I gotta be keepin' awak' weeth both eye 

An* watch alia time for a treeck, 
An' gotta be qneecka for runnin' an' try 

To spanka deir pants weetha steeck. 
Ees wan o' dees boys dat ees call "Humpy Jeem,'* 

An' justa wors' wan In da pack, 
But how am I gona gat mada weeth heem? 

He gotta da hump on da back. 

Ees only a poor leetla keed an' so weak, 

An' I am so beeg an' so strong, 
I no can gat mad an' I not even speak 

For tal heem how moocha ees wrong. 
40 



LEETLA HUMPY JEEM. 41 

Eet maka heem laugha baycause eet ees fun 

For reacli weeth hees theen leetla han' 
An' grabbin' a coupla peanutta an' run 

So fas' as hees skeenny legs can. 
So always I maka pretand I no see 

How moocha peanutta he tak'. 
I guess I would like som' wan do dat for me 

Eef I gotta hump on da back. 

Da beeg Irish cop ees say: "Poor leetla Jeem! 

Ees better for heem if he croke." 
I tal you eef som'theeng no happen to heem 

I guess pretta soon I be broke. 
I no like to theenkin' bad luck, but O! my! 

I weeshin' for evra one's sak' 
Dey soon gat an angela up in da sky 

Dat gotca da hump on da back. 



IF YOU WERE A BOY. 

If you were a boy this morning, 

I wonder what you would do? 
Was ever a day more perfect, 

Was ever the sky more blue? 
I'm speaking to you, grave senior, 

I noticed you as you went, 
Hot-footing it into the city. 

To add to your cent, per cent. 
I noticed your sober manner. 

Your very important looks, 
And I noticed your boy beside you. 

The schoolboy with his books. 
I saw — and you saw — where the river 

Sweeps down to the "swimmin'-hole/ 
Another boy playing "hookey" — 

A boy with a fishing-pole. 
42 



IF YOU WERE A BOY. 43 

If you were a boy this morning, 
I wonder what you would do? 
I saw you stooping to whisper 
A word to the boy with you. 
It seemed to me then you told him 

That the truant boy was a fool, 
That nothing ripens manhood 

Like the moments spent in school. 
With the fresh blue sky above you 

And the green fields under it, 
How dare you utter such nonsense! 

O! liar and hypocrite? 
If you were a boy this morning, 

A boy with a heart and soul, 
You'd be, in spite of a licking, 
The boy with the fishing-pole. 




'oov^r; 



CORNAYLIUS HA-HA-HA-HANNIGAN. 

TwAs the godfather stuttered, or mayhap the priest; 
But, be that as it may, it is certain, at least. 
That the wan or the other was surely to blame 
Fur presintin' the lad the quare twisht to his name. 

For there at the christ'nin', 

Wid iv'ry wan list'nln'. 
Now didn't his Riverence, Father O'Flanigan, 

Wid nervousness stam'rin', 

Bechune the child's clam'rin', 
Baptize it "Cornaylius Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!" 

Wid these words from the priest, shure, the cute little 

rogue 
Up an' stopped his own mouth wid his chubby kithogue, 
An' the dimples broke out an' prosaded to chase 
All the tears an' the frowns from his innocint face. 
For, faix, he was afther 
Absorbin' the laughther 
Stuck into his name by good Father O'Flanigan! 
Now that's the thruth in it, 
An' so from that minute 
Shure, iv'ry wan called the lad "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan." 

45 



46 CORN AY LIU S HA-HA-HA-HANNIGAN. 

Now, the "ha! ha! ha!" stuck to him close as his name, 
For the sorra a tear could be drownin' the same. 
Not a care iver touched him from that blissid day 
But his gift o' the laughther would drive it away. 
Wid jokin' an' chaffin' 
He niver stopped laughin', 
Or if he did stop he immajiate began agin; 
An' iv'ry wan hearin* 
His laughther so cheerin' 
Jisht j'ined in the mirth o* young "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hanni- 
gan." 

Shure, the throubles o' life are so palthry an' small 
'Tis a pity we let thim disthurb us at all. 
There is niver a care but would I'ave us in p'ace 
If we'd only stand up an' jisht laugh in its face. 

Faix, life were a pleasure 

If all had the treasure 
Conferred so unthinkin' by Father O'Flanigan; 

If all could but borrow 

That cure-all for sorrow 
Possissed by "Cornaylius Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!'^ 



A NEW PATRIOT, 

Ees no so hard for Dago man 

To be a gooda 'Merican. 

Too dumb, too slow, you theenka me. 

But I am sharpa 'nough for see 

Da firsta theeng dat you mus' know 

Ees how to speak da Inglaice, so 

Dat you can wave your hat an' say: 

"Da redda, whita, blue! Hooray T* 

Eef you are smarta 'Merican 
You try for skeen som' udder man, 
Baycause you know dat he weell do 
Da sama kinda treecks weeth you. 
But you are good as heem an' he 
Ees jus' so good as you an' me, 
So long we all stan' up an' say: 
"Da redda, whita, blue! Hooray!" 
47 



48 A NEW PATRIOT. 

For land dat I was leevin' een 

Da flag ees redda, whita, green. 

So alia w'at I gotta do 

Ees jus' forgat da green for blue. 

I skeen you eef I gatta chance, 

But dat ees mak* no deeferance. 

I gooda 'Merican, an' say: 

"Da redda, whita, blue! Hooray l" 



HOUSE AND HOME. 

On the day when you were wed. 
Seven Junes ago, you said 
All your life's ambitions were 
Centred in a home with her. 
Wealth and health attending you. 
All these busy twelvemonths through. 
Blessed your life and hers, and yet, 
Where's the home you meant to get? 

That's your house across the way 
With the marble front, you say? 
That's your auto standing there 
Underneath the porte-cochere. 
That prim butler at the door 
Very likely lords it o'er 
Quite a dozen maids or more; 
Maids who toil and maids who shirk, 
Maids for menial kitchen work, 
Maids who guard with brush and broom 
Every richly furnished room, 
Every polished oaken stair; 
Maids to dress milady's hair — 
49 



50 HOUSE AND HOME. 

Maids and flunkies everywhere! 
Quite a grand menage, but, sir, 
Where's the home you promised her? 

Wealth can rear a gilded dome; 

Love and Duty make the home. 

Gold is no essential thing 

In its proper furnishing. 

Not an auto at the door. 

But a coach becomes it more — • 

Tiny coach whose one or two 

Occupants resemble you. 

Gems of art that grace your hall 

You might well exchange for small 

Finger-marks upon the wall. 

Lisping voices, pattering feet. 

Furnish melody more sweet 

Than your grand salon has known. 

Where's the home you meant to own? 

All that lies behind your door 

Is a dwelling-place; no more. 



DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 

There's lazy clouds a-driftin* 

In the lazy sky o' June, 
An' Nature's just in keepin' 

With this lazy afternoon. 
I've strolled out through the meaders 

To this pleasant little nook, 
An' I'm loafin' in the shadders. 

An' a-listenin' to the brook. 
But I ain't a bit contented— 

Not a bit, an' that's a fac' — 
For I can't help a-thinkin' 

Of the long walk back. 

The little brook's a-singin' 

Kinder lazy-like an' low. 
An* it's mighty cool an' restin* 

Where its crystal waters flow. 
An' its singin' charms a feller. 

An' it seems ter say to him 
As he's layin' nigh a-dozin': 

"Don't yer wanter take a swim?'* 
Now there's nothin' I like better 

Than to take a swim, but then 
There's the trouble of a-puttin' 

On yer clothes again. 



51 



A DIXIE LULLABY. 

O! DE sun quit a-shinin' fo' dis arternoon, 

De possum in de gum-tree mighty still, 
An' de ole San'-Man jump off fum de moon 

Wen hit done come obah de hill. 
An' he come erlong totin' a baig full o' san* 

Fo' ter frow inter pickaninnies' eyes, 
An' he teck dem crway to de sweet slumber-Ian* 

Fo' ter stay 'twell de nex* sun-rise. 

So g'long wif de San'-Man, deali, 

De good Lawd keep 

Yo' w'ile yo' sleep, 
An' yo' mammy'll 'wait yo' heah. 
52 



A DIXIE LULLABY. 

Ol he'll teck yo' up on a bright moon-ray 

An' he'll rock yo' on a cloud in de skies, 
An' he'll keep yo' dar 'twell de break o' day. 

So, mah honey, jcs' close yo' eyes; 
'Less de moon go down in de far-off west, 

An' outer de dahk swamp-Ian' 
De bad Boogy-Man come out ob he nest 

An' skeer off de good San'-Man. 

So g'long wif de San'-Man, deah, 

De good Lawd keep 

Yo' w'ile yo' sleep, 
An' yo' mammy'U 'wait yo' hei.h. 



53 



DA GREATA STRONGA MAN. 

You oughta see my Uncla Joe 

Wen he ees gatta mad. 
He ees da strongest man I know 

Wen som' wan treat heem bad, 
Hees eye eet flash Hke blazin' coal. 

An' w'en he ope hees mout' 
He growla like you theenk hees soul 

Ees turna eenside out. 
He eesa gat so stronga den 

An' swell so big an' fat, 
Eet gona taka seexa men 

For justa hold hees hat. 

You oughta see my Uncla Joe 

Wen he ees mad weeth you. 
You bat my life! den you will know 

I eesa speaka true. 
He gat so strong eenside of heem 

Eet mak' your hearta freeze, 
An' eef he looka at som' cream 

Eet turna eento cheese. 
54 



DA GREAT A STRONG A MAN. 

Den you weell run, you bat my life! 

So fast as you can go, 
An' throw away your gun or knife. 

Haf strong man, Uncla Joe. 



You oughta see my Uncla Joe! 

Eet w'at you call "surprise." 
Las' night beeg Irish ponch heem so 

Eet close up hot' hees eyes. 
O! my! he eesa 1-ooka bad; 

Mus' be ees som'theeng wrong, 
Baycause w'en Uncla Joe ees mad 

He always been so strong. 
I guess dees Irish heet his blow 

So queecka an' so rough 
He no geeve time to Uncla Joe 

For gatta mad enough. 



55 



TO A WEE COQUETTE. 

Wee lady, such a tease thou art 

One may not half believe thee. 
I share a corner of thy heart, 

And yet thou wouldst deceive me; 
For when I beg thee, little Flo, 

To grant just one caress. 
Thy pouting lips make answer: "No!" 

The while thine eyes say "Yes." 

Wise men assure us that the heart 

Is mirrored in the eyes; 
In thine I read with lover's art 

The truth thy tongue denies. 
So thou, my sweet, those eyes must close 

Or yield to my caress. 
For though thou speak ten thousand "NoesT 

Thine eyes still answer "Yes." 



S6 



THE "OUCHES." 

The "Ouches" is the queerest crew: 

On earth, or anywhere. 
They al'ays live inside o' you 

An' you don't know they're there. 
For jist as long as you are nice 

An' good as you kin be 
They'll stay as quite an' still as mice, 

Fur they're asleep, ye see. 
But sometimes when you git a bump 

'At makes you kind o' mad, 
It wakes an Ouch! an' out he'll jump, 

An' 'at's a sign you're bad. 

Most Ouches makes your throat their home. 

Or, leastways, one appears 
Right there when mother starts to comb 

Your hair or wash your ears. 
An' funny thing about 'em, too, 

My mother tells about. 
An Ouch can't do no harm in you 

If you don't let it out. 
So if you really truly care 

To be the boy you should, 
Jist shut your mouth an' keep 'em there. 

An' 'at's a sign you're good. 
57 



BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 



I GOTTA lov' for Angela, 

I lov' Carlotta, too. 
I no can marry both o' dem. 

So w'at I gona do? 




O! Angela ees pretta girl, 
She gotta hair so black, so curl, 
An' teeth so white as anytheeng. 
An' O! she gotta voice to seeng, 
Dat mak' your hearta feel eet must 
Jump up an' dance or eet weell bust. 
58 



BETWEEN TWO LOVES. 

An' alia time she seeng, her eyes 
Dey smila like Italia's skies, 
An' makin' flirtin' looks at you — 
But dat ees all w'at she can do. 



59 




Carlotta ees no gotta song, 

But she ees twice so big an' strong 

As Angela, an' she no look 

So beautiful — but she can cook. 

You oughta see her. carry wood! 

I tal you w'at, eet do you good. 

When she ees be som'body's wife 

She worka hard, you bat my life! 



6o 



BETWEEN TWO LOVES, 



She never gattin' tired, too — 
But dat ees all w'at she can do. 




O! my! I weesh dat Angela 

Was strong for carry wood. 
Or else Carlotta gotta song 

An* looka pretta good. 
I gotta lov' for Angela, 

I lov' Carlotta, too. 
J no can marry both o' dem. 

So w'at I gona do? 



FATHER DAN O'MALLEY. 

Whin Father Dan O'Malley came as curate to St. Ann's, 
There was work in Dublin Alley layin' ready to his nan's. 
Aye! 'twas work o' sich a nature that no common man 

could do, 
Fur, indade, the only t'acher that the Alley gossoons 

knew 
Was the Divil that was lurkin' In the badness of their 

hearts, 
And it's never aisy wurkin' fur to strive agin his arts. 
But although he's cute, fur, shure, it is the Divil's trade 

to schame, 
Ye can trust an Irish curate fur to bate him at his game. 
There was little dilly-dally in the layin' out of plans 
Whin Father Dan O'Malley came as curate to St. Ann's, 

Now, the trouble jisht was layin' in the fact that as a rule 
The gossoons thought more of playin' than of goin' to 

Sunda' school. 
Ev'ry plisant Sunda* mornin', faith, ye'd find thim at their 

game, 

6i 



62 FATHER DAN O'M ALLEY, 

Nor could any threat or warnin' make thim feel a sinse 

o' shame. 
An' of all the little divils that desp'iled the holy day, 
The ringleader cf their rivels was that rascal, Paddy 

Shea. 
He could set a top a-spinnin' till ye'd think 'twould never 

stop, 
.A.n' the marbles he was winnin' would have aisy stocked 

a shop. 
Not a soul in Dublin Alley 'd won a vict'ry from his ban's 
Till Father Dan O'Malley came as curate to St. Ann's. 

Father Dan was big an' jolly, wid a heart that filled his 

chist. 
An' a smile that it was folly fur ye tryin' to resist. 
Well, it took a bare half-hour of one Sunda' morn in May 
Fur to dimonstrate his power over roguish Paddy Shea. 
Though the bells had rung their rally to the Sunda* 

school, the hall 
Showed no lad of Dublin Alley had appeared at all, at all. 
Father Dan wint out a-gunnin' fur the rogues that stayed 

away. 
An' the rascals started runnin', but he captured Paddy 

Shea. 
Thin it was that Dublin Alley passed from out the Divil's 

ban's. 
Fur Father Dan O'Malley now was curate at St. Ann's. 



FATHER DAN O'M ALLEY. 63 

"Now, me boy," sez he to Paddy, "you're the champeen 

player here, 
So 3'ou'll play vvid me, me laddie, jisht to make yer title 

clear; 
Is it marbles ye've been playin'? Well, we'll start agin 

to play, 
But you'll bend yer knees to prayin' v/hin I've licked ye, 

Paddy Shea. 
Come along, you rogue! Your luck'll not avail ye now 

to v/in. 
Whisht! More power to me knuckle, 'tis the Church's 

work it's in." 
From the very first beginnin' Father Dan outplayed the 

lad, 
An* he wasn't long in winnin' ev'ry marble that he had. 
After that the Dublin Alley lads was putty in the ban's 
Of Father Dan O'Malley, who is curate at St. Ann's. 

So the Sunda' school is crowded to the doors this blessed 

day. 
Fur the lads had lost their marbles to the skill of Paddy 

Shea, 
An' the leader o' the Alley has in turn throwed up his 

ban's 
To Father Dan O'Malley, who is curate at St. Ann's. 



CONTENT. 

Along about this time o' year, 

The while I set a-bHnkin' 
In the warm sunshine here, 

I always git to thinkin' 
The old farm ain't so bad a place. 

But what I feel some pity 
Fur the dumb fools thet's in the rate 

Fur gold down in the city. 
You don't ketch me a-praying God 

To better my position. 
I only want my fishin'-rod 

An' time to go a-fishin'. 
1 got a shirt, a pair o' pants, 

Coat, hat, an' appetite; 
I know the fish, an' all their ha'nts 

An' when they're like to bite. 
An' all the clo'es I want is what 

Will keep off chill an' shiver. 
While I'm a-settin' in this spot — 

The best along the river. 
Ketch me a-combin' of my hair 

An' wearin' cuffs an' collars! 
I wouldn't be a millionaire 

Fur seven hundred dollars! 
64 



WAT'S A USE? 

Wat'sa use for gattin' mad 
Jus' baycause you feela bad? 
You gon' feela worse an' worse 
Eef you gona stop an' curse 
Evra time ees som'theeng wrong. 
You no gotta leeve so long. 
Wan, two, t'ree, four year, bimeby, 
Mebbe so you gona die. 
So ees best from day to day 
Maka sunshine weetha hay. 
Don't be gattin' mada while 
You can hava time to smile. 
Wat'sa use? 

Padre Smeeth he tal me, too, 
Justa like I tal to you. 
Wan day he ees say, "Hallo! 
Wat ees mak' you grovvla so? 
Evra time you gatta mad 
Eet ees mak' Diablo glad. 
Justa laugh an' don'ta care. 
Den you mak' Diablo swear." 
Smila now an' den bimeby 
You can smila w'en you die. 
Growla now an' you weell yeil 
Weeth Diablo down een — well 
Wat'sa use? 

65 



KISS HER. 

Say, young man! if you've a wife. 

Kiss her. 
Every morning of your life. 

Kiss her. 
Every evening when the sun 
Marks your day of labor done. 
Get you homeward on the run- 
Kiss her! 

Even though you're feeling bad, 

Kiss her. 
If she's out of sorts and sad, 

Kiss her. 
Act as if you meant it, too; 
Let the whole true heart of you 
Speak its ardor when you do 

Kiss her. 
66 



KISS HER. 67 

If you think it's "soft," you're wrong. 

Kiss her! 
Love like this will make you strong. 

Kiss her. 
You're her husband now, but let 
Her possess her lover yet. 
Every blessed chance you get. 

Kiss her. 

Every good wife lets her man 

Kiss her. 
Be a man then, when you can; 

Kiss her. 
If you'd strike with telling force 
At the Evil of Divorce, 
Just adopt this simple course; 

Kiss her. 



DEAR UNSELFISH DAN, 

'Most every one that knowed our Dan 
Agreed he was the kindest man 
They ever see. He had the knack 
Of takin' on his own broad back 
The burdens an' the slaps and pokes 
Belonged by rights to other folks. 
If any one was in distress 
An' went to Dan, he'd say: "I guess 
We'll pull you out all right; let's see, 
Suppose you leave all that to me." 

Was nothin' finer than the way 
He cared for poor old Uncle Jay, 
Who was the most unlucky han' 
For havin' trouble with his Ian' 
'Bout taxes, or the early spring 
Plowin', or some other thing 
That plumb upsot the poor old man. 
Then, in the nick o' time, our Dan 
Steps in, and sez, "Don't fret," sez he, 
"Suppose you leave all that to me." 
68 



DEAR UNSELFISH DAN. 69 

It got to be that Uncle Jay 
He couldn't git along no way 
Without our Dan, an' our Dan he 
Jest cared fur him unselfishly. 
An' when the old man come to die 
Our Dan, o' course, was right close by. 
Sez Uncle Jay: "I'm worrit, Dan, 
'Bout what's to come of all my Ian' 
An' all my money out at loan. 
An' in the bank, when I am gone." 
Then Dan, he ups an' sez, sez he: 
"Suppose you leave all that to me." 



HER ANSWER. 

"Dear Nell," he wrote, "these violets 
I've made so bold to send to you 

Shall be my mute ambassadors; 
And each shall tell how deep and true 

The sender's love is, craving yours 

For him. What messengers more meet? 

Are they not typical of you. 
They are so sweet?" 

"Dear Jack," she wrote, "your violets • 
Have just this moment been received. 

Their message took me by surprise, 
'Twas something scarce to be believed. 

I send my answer back with them; 
What fitter messengers for you? 

So typical of how you'll feel — 
They are so blue!" 



70 



KITTY'S GRADUATION. 

Dublin Alley jisht was crazy, jubilation was the rule, 
Chewsday week whin Kitty Casey won the honors at the 

school. 
Shure, the neighbors had been waitin', all impatient of delay. 
For to see her graduatin' on that most important day. 
Eddication is a power, an' we owned wid one accord 
Casey's girl's the sweetest flower ever blossomed in the 

ward. 
Whin, wid dress white as the daisy, but wid cheeks that 

shamed the rose. 
We beheld wee Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. 

Now, this Casey loved his daughther in a most indulgent 

way. 
An' he spent his gold like wather for her graduation day, 
Sich a dale of great preparin'! Shure, ye'd think she was a 

bride; 
Sorra hair was Casey carin' for a blessed thing beside. 
For whin Casey once commin(»es, faith, he niver stops at all, 
An' he dressed her like a princess at a Coronation Ball. 
An' 'twas Madame Brigette Tracy for dressmaker that he 

chose, 
For to fit out Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. 

71 



72 



KITTY'S GRADUATION. 



Of dresstricikers, shure, the oddest was this one that Casey'd 

got, 
For her bill-heads called her "Modiste," though the prices 

there did not. 



I 




"But," sez Casey, "I can stan it for to pay a few more cints, 
So jisht go ahead an' plan it, ma'am, raygardless of ixpinse." 



KITTY'S GRADUATION. 



73 



'Bong Moonseer," sez she, "I'll try it wid the usual 'savoir 
fair.' " 




'As fur that," sez Casey, "buy it, wid the other things she'll 



wear. 



So ye see the man was crazy for to get the best that goes 
For his little Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. 



KITTY'S GRADUATION. 75 

A.11 the women jisht were itchin' for to see her gettin' 

dressed, 
Some were crowded in the kitchen an' the stairway, while 

the rest, 
The most favored ones,wint riishin' to the livin' room above, 
Where stood Mrs. Casey bhishin' wid a mother's pride an' 

love. 
"O!" sez she, " 'twould be a pity if I couldn't schame an' plan 
So that Kitty'd look as pritty as Mag Ryan's Mary Ann." 
"Tut! ye needn't be onaisy," sez a neighbor. "Goodness 

knows, 
There'll be none like Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es." 

An' there's really no denyin', whin they marched into the hall 
Kitty Casey pushed the Ryan girl complately to the wall. 
Whin she made her prize oration an' they gave her her 

degree, 
There was sich a dimonstration as ye'll niver live to see. 
For the men from Dublin Alley voiced their feelin's in a 

cheer 
Like they utther whin they rally in a Dimmycratic year. 
An' of Casey's proudest days he counts that best of all he 

knows 
Which beheld his Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. 



AN ITALIAN KING. 

I AM SO good for evratheeng 

I oughta be electa Keeng! 

Ees no som'body else at all 

So strong like me, so beeg, so tall, 

An' no som'body else can do 

So greata theengs like I can, too. 

How mooch j^ou try you no can be 

So fma beega man like me. 

You bat my life! I oughta gat 

A crown for wear eenside my hat. 

An' makin' all da style I can, 

Baycause I am so granda man. 

All dees ees true. Eh? how I know? 

My leetla boy he tal me so. 

You maka fun weeth me an' tease. 
An' call me *'Dago" eef you please; 
An' mebbe so I what you call 
"No good for anytheeng at all," 
An' you weell theenk you speaka true 
Baycause eet looka so to you. 
Wal, mebbe som' time you are right. 
But not w'en I gat home at night. 
Ha! dat'sa time dat I am Keeng 
An' I am good for evratheeng! 
I know; baycause Patricio, 
My leetla boy, he tal me so. 



DA PRITTA LADY. 

Ees playnta reecha ladies com' 

By dees peanutta-stan'; 
I like to watcha dem, for som' 

Ees looka justa gran'. 
Dey got so fina hat an' dress, 

An' evratheeng so clean. 
Most any Keeng be proud, I guess. 

For calla one hees Queen. 
Beeg Irish cop say: "Looka dat! 

I tal you she's a peach! 
Dat's kinda wife a man can gat 

Eef he ees only reech." 
I theenk of Angela, my wife. 

An' weesha: "My, O! my, 
Eef she like dat, you bat my life, 

I would be satisfi'." 

But den I theenk, su'pose my wife 

Was beautiful like dees; 
I would be frighten of my life 

To aska her for keess. 
77 



^8 DA PRITTA LADY. 

I would be scare' to hug her so 

Like w'at I always do 
To Angela, baycause, you know, 

She mebbe bust in two. 
Baysides, my Angela she gat 

My baby at her breas'; 
Eet mighta not be lika dat 

Eef she was reech, I guess. 
No reecha lady coulda be 

So pritta eef she try, 
Like Angela ees look to me. 

So I am satisfi'. 



A FROSTY MORNING. 

I LOVE these frosty mornings. 

When all the outer air 
Is tingling with a freshness 

And vim beyond compare. 

The north-wind in the tree-tops 
Proclaims the coming dawn, 

And sends the crisp leaves rattling 
Across the frozen lawn. 

From some adjacent farmyard 

A watchful chanticleer. 
With raucous, joyous crowing 

Assails the atmosphere. 

Then, nearer home, a watchdog, 
Awakened from his sleep. 

Gives voice to his resentment 
In tones prolonged and deep. 
79 < 



8o A FROSTY MORNING. 

A wagon, bound for market, 
Goes creaking down the road. 

I hear the axles groaning 
Beneath the heavy load. 

The light grows at my window. 
And on the pane, I see, 

Jack Frost has limned a- picture 
Of silver tracery. 

Now, from the servants* stairway. 
Slow feet descend the hall; 

And then a kitchen shutter 
Bangs out against the wall. 

I love, these frosty mornings, 
To note these things, and then— 

To draw the bed-clothes closer 
And go to sleep again. 



TO THE GROWLER. 

Be patient! Be a Christian and forbear 
To objurgate the Weather-man and swear 
Because the sting of winter's in the air. 

Do 3^ou remember 
Those days in June, a few short months ago, 
Whose scorching heat, oppressed and baked you so. 
And made you yearn the blest relief to know 

Of cool September? 
And when September came and in its train 
Brought days of frost and days of sodden rain. 
Good gracious! how you kicked and growled again! 

Do you remember? 

Those summer days will soon have come once more, 
And you'll forget how bitterly you swore 
At all the winter weather gone before. 

Will you remember, 
When you are sweltering in mid-July, 
The flakes, frost-feathered, that were wont to fly 
From out the windy reaches of the sky, 

This past December? 
Meantime, if you should die and you should get 
Your just desserts, with O! what vain regret, 
These winter days Cbecause they're cold and wci) 

You will remember! 

8i 



DEESA GREATA HOLIDAY. 

Hoorah! for deesa General 

Dat maka Fourth-July! 
I sella playnta lemonade, 

Banan' an' cake an' pie. 
He maka beezaness for me 

At dees peanutta-stan', 
An' w'en I eesa gotta time 

I go for shak' hees han'. 

Wen I am com' America, 

Some fallow on da sheep 
He tal how deesa General 

He "mak' da Inglaice skeep." 
"We don'ta wanta fightin' here," 

Dees General he say, 
"So, Meester Inglaice Fightin'-man, 

You besta go away." 
An' den dees Inglaice Fightin'-man, 

He aska heem "For why?" 
Da General ees gatta mad. 

"I no can tal a He," 



DEES A GREAT A HOLIDAY. 83 

He say to deesa Fightin'-man, 

"An' so I speaka true. 
If you no gatta 'way from here 

I tal you w'at I do. 
I tie you een a cherry tree, 

An' den I tak' my knife 
An' feeda you weeth cherry pie 

Ees cooka by my wife!" 
"O! No!" ees say da Fightin'-man, 

An' looka pretta seeck, 
"I notta wanta fight weeth you. 

I go for home dees week." 

Da Fightin'-man he was so scare 

He justa run away. 
***** 

**An* now," ees say de General, 

"We maka hoHday, 
For leetla boys to maka noise 

An' eata cake an' pie. 
Dees hohday will be da one 

We calla Fourth-July." 



THE NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT. 

He's a-comin', he's a-comin'! 

An' he sets the town a-buzz. 
Though they aiji't as many of 'im 

As what they useter wuz. 
He's a-growin' more important 

Jest because he's dyin' out. 
The G. A. R.'s a-comin', 

"Hats off!" -along the rout'. 

He's a-comin', he's a-comin'! 

An' a grateful people tries 
To bring the light o' gladness 

To the old-time fighter's eyes. 
So the old flag waves above 'im. 

An' he hears the people shout: 
'The G. A. R.'s a-comin', 

Hats off along the rout'!" 

He's a-marchin', he's a-marchin'! 

There's a reminiscent touch 
Of his bearin' in the "Sixties" 

In the way he slings his crutch, 
As he marches ever onward 

To the last Great Muster-out. 
The G. A, R.'s a-comin'! 

"Hats off!" along the rout*. 
84 



I 



AT CASTLE GARDEN. 

Here's a ivhole ship-load of swate femininity — 

Girls of the Sod! 
Faith! but I'm glad to be in the vicinity. 

Here with me hod, 
Mortar and bricks have engaged me this solid day. 
O! but I wish I was drissed fur a holiday! 
Wouldn't I show ye the taste of a jolly day, 

Girls of the Sod? 

Let me stand by in this workaday guise of mine, 

Girls of the Sod, 
O! but the sight of ye moistens these eyes of mine. 

Isn't it odd? 
Maybe the view of yer solemn processional 
Out of the ship, as it were a confessional, 
Carries my heart in a tour retrogressional 

Back to the Sod. 
85 



86 AT CASTLE GARDEN. 

O! I am thinkin' 'twas jisht a mistake of ye 

L'avin' the Sod. 
All that is best ye have left in the wake of ye, 

There where ye trod 
Fields that were full of the swateness that's blessin' ye, 
Fresh with the breezes so fond of caressin' ye — 
O! but there's many a heart will be missin' ye. 

Girls of the Sod! 

There ye reaped joy if ye only were knowin' it. 

Here 'twill be odd 
If what ye're reapin' will pay ye fur sowin' it, 

Girls of the Sod. 
Arrah! No wonder ye're lookin' so serious, 
This is a country to make ye delirious, 
Toilin' an' moilin' to serve the imperious 

Mammon, its god. 

Listen to me an' I'll have the whole crowd of ye 

Back to the Sod, 
Back to the valleys that love and are proud of ye, 

Girls of the Sod! 
Ireland needs ye, her love that has girt ye there 
Yearns fur ye still an' will I'ave nothin' hurt ye there. 
Gold isn't counted like goodness and virtue there, 

Thanks be to God! 



AT CASTLE GARDEN. 87 

Still if there's wan of ye bent upon tarryin', 

Girls of the Sod, 
Did I not mintion the merits o' marryin' 

I'd be a clod. 
So if ye're needin' the love of a merry man, 
Merry but sober, a dacint young Kerry man^ 
Faith, I could whishper the name of the very man — 

Give me a nodi 



DA BESTA FRAND. 

No keeck my dog! Ha! don'ta dare! 

For jus' so queeck you do, 
You Meester 'Merican, I swear 

I brack your face for you! 
Eh? Wat? Well, den, dat's alia right, 

But let my Carlo be. 
Escusa me for gat excite'; 

Com', look! 1 smila! See? 
I want be frand weeth you, eef dat 

You wanta be my frand, 
But Carlo ees bes' frand I gat 

Een all dees bigga land, 
An' he ees firsta 'Merican 

For com' w'en I am blue 
An' mak' me feela like man— 

I tal eet all to you. 

W'en I am com' from Italy, 

Jus* landa from da sheep, 
Som' thief he tak' my mon' from me 

An' — presto! — he ees skeep. 
89 



90 DA BESTA FRAND. 

An' w'en I find ees gon', O! my! 

I scream, I pull my hair, 
An' justa run aroun' an' cry 

Like crazy man an' swear. 
W'en com'sa beeg poleecaman, 

I ask, I beg dat he 
Weell catcha thiefa eef he can — 

He justa laugh at me! 
I sect een street — I am so blue — 

An' justa hold my head 
An' theenk "w'at am I gona do?" 

An' weesh dat I am dead. 
Som' peopla com' an' look, but dey 

Jus* smile an' notta care; 
So pretta soon dey gon' away 

An' leave me seettin' dere. 
How long I sect I no can tal; 

I pray, I cry, I curse — 
I bat you eef I go to hal 

I no could feel more worse! 
But while I sect ees som'theeng sof 

Dat touch my cheek an' w'en 
I tak' my hand for brush eet off 

Eet touch my cheek agen. 
I look. Ees justa leetla cur 

Dat wag hees yellow tail! 
An' blood ees on hees yellow fur, 



DA DESTA FRAND. 91 



An' dere ees old teen pail 
Tied on bayhind. Poor leetla pup! 

But steell he leeck my hand, 
As eef he say to me: "Cheer up! 

I gona be your frand." 
I hug heem up! I am ashame' 

For let heem see dat he 
Ees justa dog, but alia same 

Ees better man dan me. 

So! dees ees Carlo, Meester Man; 

I introduce to you, 
Da true, da kinda 'Merican; 

Da first I evva knew! 



THE WISDOM OF THE SPARROWS. 

'TwAS a city sparrow, wise and debonair, 

Idly loafing through the country with his mate. 
Stupid country birds were building everywhere, 
For the nesting-time was growing very late, 

But the sparrow, with his lady. 

In a tree-top, cool and shady. 
Gazed with scorn upon the work and twittered: "Stuff!' 

To his mate he chirruped shrilly: 

"Isn't all this labor silly. 
When a roosting-place at night is quite enough?" 

'Twas a motherly old robin, near at hand. 

Who was busy at her building with the rest, 
And she turned upon the sparrows to demand 

How they meant to hatch their eggs without a nest. 
"Such impertinence!" half sadly 
Said the sparrow; "and yet gladly 
I'll impart to you the knowledge that you beg." 
Then, with haughty condescension. 
He remarked: "I need but mention 
That it's possible to obviate the egg." 

92 



THE WISDOM OF THE SPARROWS. 93 

*Twas a congress of the birds of every sort, 

All indignantly assembled to protest 
Their displeasure, when the robin made report 
Of the threatened abolition of the nest; 

And they spoke of it as "awful!" 

"Selfish," "scandalous," "unlawful," 
And they prophesied "the country's speedy fall." 

But the sparrows, quite disdaining 

All this ignorant complaining, 
Simply went their way, unmindful of it all. 

*Twas a sage old owl, a very solemn bird, 

Sat and listened while his feathered fellows fought. 
Never once he oped his mouth to say a word. 
But he did a lot of thinking — and he thought: 
"So the sparrows think it best 
To abolish eggs and nest. 
Well, perhaps the wisdom isn't theirs at all. 
But a plan of good Dame Nature's 
To eliminate such creatures. 
Let them have their way; the loss is mighty small." 



THE MODEST COLLEEN. 

If I should sing of "Mary" 

Don't think that that's her nameo 
My colleen bawn's conthrary 

And doesn't care for fame. 
She sez 'twould make her fidget 

To see her name in print, 
So I can't sing of — Murther! 

I nearly gev a hint! 

She likes to watch me writin* 

A sonnet to her eyes, 
In poethry recitin' 

The love that in me lies. 
But holds one rosy digit, 

Resthrainin' of me pen. 
For fear I'll mintion — Musha! 

I almost wrote it then. 
94 



THE MODEST COLLEEN. 

So whin the names of Nora, 

An' Nell an' Kate, betimes, 
Or Mary, Rose or Dora 

Are mintioned in me rhymes, 
They mean that modest midget. 

That charmin' little elf, 
Whose name is — O! I'll I'ave ye 

.'io guess her name yerself. 



95 



THE OLD PARISHIONER. 

The graybeard glories in the past 

^nd prates of ''good old days." 
These times are out of joint, he growls. 

And sneers at modern ways. 
He shakes his head at every move 

That's up-to-date and new, 
And everything you do is just 

The thing you shouldn't do. 
It's: "Mercy save us! Look at that! 

We're slidin' back, I fear. 
The parish isn't what it was 

Whin Father Mack was here.'* 

"The weddin's now are not as fine 

As weddin's used to be, 
An', faith, they're not so numerous 

At all, at all," says he. 



THE OLD PARISHIONER. 97 

"Then, christ'nin's, too, were plentiful 

An' carried out wid style; 
'Twould warm your heart to see them there 

A-crowdin' up the aisle. 
An' sermons! How the crowds would come 

To listen! Dear, O! dear. 
The parish isn't what it was 

Whin Father Mack was here." 

,Yet, from a study of the rolls 

And records, 'twould appear 
The parish claimed but fifty souls 

.When Father Mack was here. 



LEETLA GIORGIO WASHEENTON. 

You know w'at for ees school keep out 

Dees holiday, my son? 
Wal, den, I gona tal you 'bout 

Dees Giorgio Washeenton. 

,Wal, Giorgio was leetla keed 

Ees leeve long time ago, 
An' he gon' school for learn to read 

An' write hees nam', you know. 
He moocha like for gona school 

An' learn hard all day, 
Baycause he no gat time for fool 

Weeth bada keeds an* play. 
,Wal, wan cold day w'en Giorgio 

Ees steell so vera small, 
98 



LEETLA GIORGIO WASHEENTON. 99 

He start from home, but he ees no 

Show up een school at all! 
O! my! hees Pop ees gatta mad 

An' so he tal hees wife: 
**Som' leetla boy ees gon' feel bad 

To-day, you bat my life!" 
An' den he grab a beega steeck 

An' gon' out een da snow 
An' lookin' all aroun' for seek 

Da leetla Giorgio. 
Ha! w'at you theenk? Firs' theeng he see 

Where leetla boy he stan', 
All tangla up een cherry tree, 

Weeth hatchet een hees han'. 
**Ha! w'at you do?" hees Pop he say, 

"Wat for you busta rule 
An' stay away like dees for play 

Eenstead for gon' to school?" 
Da boy ees say: "I no can lie. 

An' so I speaka true. 
I stay away from school for try 

An' gat som' wood for you. 
I theenka deesa cherry tree 

Ees gooda size for chop, 
An' so I cut heem down, you see. 

For justa help my Pop." 



100 LEETLA GIORGIO WASHEENTON. 

Hees Pop he no can gatta mad, 
But looka please' an' say: 

"My leetla boy, I am so glad 
You taka holiday." 

Ees good for leetla boy, you see. 

For be so bright an' try 
For help hees Pop; so den he be 

A granda man bimeby. 
So now you gatta holiday 

An' eet ees good, you know. 
For you gon' do da sama way 

Like leetla Giorgio. 
Don't play so mooch, but Justa stop, 

Eef you want be som' gooa, 
An' justa help your poor old Pop 

By carry home some wood; 
An' mebbe so like Giorgio 

You grow for be so great 
You gona be da Presidant 

Of dese Unita State'. 



BALLADE OF MODEST HEROES. 

I LIKE the historical play 

Whose action is dashing and free, 
Whose hero is quick in the fray, 

Yet modest, withal; for, you see, 

True manhood and power should be 
With gentleness bred in the bone. 

Such traits appeal strongly to me, 
They remind me so much of my own. 

I'm also quite willing to say 

A word for the novels, where we 
May read of Love's devious way, 

And share in its sorrow and glee. 

Fm right with the lover when he 
Has got his coy sweetheart alone. 

His words are familiar to me, 
They remind me so much of my own. 

lOI 



102 BALLADE OF MODEST HEROES. 

And as for the prints of the day 
Which spread over land, over sea. 

Reports of all news that they may, 
From a fight to a five o'clock tea, 
I'm fond of them also, perdie! 

More deeds in their columns are shown 
That can't help appealing to me, 

iThey remind me so much of my own. 

ENVOY. 

Ye Writers, of every degree. 

Come, sit at the foot of my throne. 

Your heroes' traits clamor to me, 
They remind me so much of my own. 



i 



THE "BUILDING INSPECTOR." 

When ground is broken on the site 
For your new church, some busy wight 
Is certain to assume the right 

To pose as chief inspector. 
He deems it quite the thing that he 
Should represent the laity, 
And watch the builder's work and see 

He doesn't cheat the rector. 

Of course the whole thing's badly plann-sd. 
He tells you, and you understand 
How good it is that he's at hand 

To check some greater blunder. 
The mortar's bad. He breaks a crumb 
Between his finger and his thumb, 
And shakes his head and murmurs, "Bum! 

Who sold 'em that, I wonder?" 

Thus after church each Sunday morn. 
With mingled pity, grief and scorn, 
He goes about on his forlorn 

Grim duty of inspection. 
But, no, not every Sunday though — 
That statement's not exactly so — 
Some Sundays you take up, you know, 

The building fund collection. 
103 



THE IRISH BACHELOR. 

Here fur yer pity or scorn, I'm presintin' ye 

Jerry McGlone. 
Trustin' the life of him will be previntin' ye 

Marrin' yer own. 
Think of a face wid a permanint fixture of 
Looks that are always suggistin' a mixture of 
Limmons an' vinegar. There! ye've a pixture of 

Jerry McGlone. 

Faix, there is nothin' but sourest gloom in this 

Jerry McGlone. 
Chris'mas joy, anny joy, niver finds room in this 

Crayture of stone. 
Cynical gloom is the boast an' the pride of him, 
An' if a laugh iver did pierce the hide of him, 
Faix, I belave 'twould immajiate, inside of him, 

Change to a groan. 
105 



I06 THE IRISH BACHELOR. 

Whisht! now, an' listen. 1*11 tell ye the throuble wid 

Jerry McGlone. 
He preferred single life rather than double wid 

Molly Malone. 
Think of it! Think of an Irishman tarryin* 
While there's a purty girl wishful fur marryin'l 
Arrah! no wonder the divils are harryin' 

Jerry McGlone. 

Ah! but there's few o' the race but would scorn to be 

Jerry AlcGlone. 
Shure, we all know that a Celt is not born to be 

Livin' alone. 
O ! but we're grateful (I spake for the laity) 
Grateful fur women the bountiful Deity 
Dowers wid beauty an* virtue an' gaiety, 

All for our own I 



TO A PLAIN SWEETHEART. 

I LOVE thee, dear, for what thou art, 
Nor would I wish thee otherwise. 

For when thy lashes lift apart 
I read, deep-mirrored in thine eyes, 

The glory of a modest heart. 

Wert thou as fair as thou art good. 
It were not given to any man, 

With daring eyes of flesh and blood, 
To look thee in the face and scan 

The splendor of thy womanhood. 



107 



THE CONQUEST 

Last night the winter's rear-guard passed 

In utter rout through lane and street; 
"With faint and fainter bugle-blast 

The North-wind sounded the retreat. 
Far echoes of the stubborn flight 

Crept backward from the distant hill, 
Stray stragglers lurched across the night. 

But soon were gone, and all was still. 
Then vaguely, through the pregnant hush, 

The murmur of a marching host 
Surged swiftly onward as the rush 

Of breakers on a level coast, 
Until up-swelled through lane and street. 

In swift crescendo thundering, 
The drums of Southern rain that beat 

Reveille to the waking Spring. 
io8 



THE CONQUEST OF THE NORTH. 109 

O! glad gray army of the South! 

Our sky is your triumphal arch. 
Nor deed of arms nor word of mouth 

Shall here oppose your onward march. 
The little children of the North, 

Long captive to the winter's cold, 
Impatient yearn to sally forth 

And tread the fields of green and gold. 
For, love of life renewed, we greet 

With joy your conquest, welcoming 
Invading drums of rain that beat 

Reveille to the waking Spring. 



A BOOK NOT "GIVABLE." 

I HAVE only poor words to send you in time for this 

Christmas Day; 
My wonted gift of the season must sufifer a slight delay. 
Though I had what I felt would please you, I find that it 

will not do, 
And I needs must wait till the morrow to purchase a 

giit for you. 

I had you in mind this morning. The thought of you 

bade me drop 
My daily cares for the moment and hie to the bookman's 

shop. 
The shop that we haunted so often, down there in the 

little back street. 
In the days when we slaved together over ledger and 

balance-sheet 
And squandered our hard-earned pennies for an intel- 
lectual treat. 
You remember those shelves in the corner where you 

discovered your Burns 
And I unearthed those treasures of Congreve's, Smollett's 

and Sterne's? 
Well, there's where I looked this morning in search of a 

gift for you, 

no 



A BOOK NOT "GIVABLEr m 

And I saw what I thought would please you, but I find 

that it will not do. 

*Twas the title, "She Stoops to Conquer", that arrested 

my roving eye, 
And the make of the volume pleased me and prompted 

me to buy. 
So I tucked it away in my pocket, with only a casual look 
To the points that are most essential in a thoroughly 

"givable" book. 
But to-night in my hearthside leisure, ere posting it off 

to you, 
I imposed on myself the duty to examine it through and 

through. 
I was rather shocked at the cover, and vexed that I had 

not seen 
How the russet calf was mottled with mildew-spots of 

green. 
Then the title-page is rather a trifle the worse for wear. 
And it really cost me an effort to read the announcement 

there 
That the book was "printed for Griffiths," and the smaller 

line below: 
"To be had of Timothy Becket in Paternoster Row." 
I discover the date of the printing is 1774. 
Was it after the author's exit, I wonder, or before? 
The thought that this book had being in the very year of 

his death, 



112 A BOOK NOT "GIVABLEr 

Perhaps in the very hour that claimed his departing 

breath, 
IVxakes misty the reader's vision and carries the fancy back 
To the times and the haunts of the genius, poet and book- 
man's hack. 
What phantasies, sweet and tender, out of that golden age, 
March by in the time-dimmed type of the quaintly printed 
page! 

But, pshaw! I am boring you, surely, with this sort of 

folderol; 
You never were partial as I am to "poor old lovable 

Noll." 
The book's well enough in its fashion, but it wouldn't be 

proper to send 
A thing — well — so battered and shabby as a holiday gift 

to a friend. 
As I told you, the old leather cover is very much mil- 
dewed and worn, 
And a few of the pages are dog-eared and others are torn. 
I thought at first sight it would please you, but I find that 

it will not do. 
So I needs must wait till the morrow to purchase a gift 

for you. 
I've only "God-bless-you" to send you in time for this 

Christmas Day, 
But my wonted gift of the season will follow. Forgive 

the delay. 



DA MUSICA MAN. 

You knowa Giovanni, da musica man? 

He playa da harpa, he playa pian', 

For maka da mona wherevra he can. 

Da styleesha peopla dey geeve heem da chance 

For maka da music for helpa dem dance. 

He playa da music so gooda, so gran', 
He tal me, da ladies dey calla heem "sweet" 
An' geeve heem da playnta good fooda for eat. 

I like be Giovanni, da musica man. 

Giovanni, da musica man, he ees fat, 

An' sleepy an' lazy so lika da cat. 

So moocha da dreenkin' an' eatin' he gat. 

I gotta da music eensida my heart; 

I weesh I have also da musical art 

For mak' eet com' outa my heart like he can, 
An' filla my stomach weeth fooda for eat. 
I digga da tranch; I work hard on da street — 

I like be Giovanni, da musica man. 



"3 



THE "MODERATE DRINKER." 

I HONOR more the merry wight 
Who, though he curbs his appetite. 

Still takes a social beaker, 
Than any Prohibition crank 
Who prates about the "water-tank." 

I hate a temperance speaker. 

So, come, lift up a brimming cup 

To all who've wit to use it. 
And let it be our boast that we 

May use but not abuse it. 

Kind Nature brings her gift of wine 

That Thought may glow, that Wit may shine. 

And shall we then reject her? 
Tis true the sodden sot's a beast, 
But he's a death's-head at the feast 

Who will not touch the nectar. 
114 



THE MODERATE DRINKER. 

Once more! Lift up a brimming cup 

To all who've wit to use it. 
And let it be our boast that we 

May use but not abuse it. 

What need to men of common sense 
Is any "total abstinence"? 

There's shimply nothin' to it. 
What harm to use th' good ole stuff 
If you (hie) shtop when you've enough? 
That'sh way that I (hie) do it. 

Whoopla! fill up a brimmin' cup 

To all (hie) wit t* ushe it. 
(Hie) let (hie) be ou' boash (hie) we 

^Wow!!) ushe (whoop!) not (hie) 'buzhe it. 



15 



DA 'MERICANA GIRL. 

I GATTA mash weeth Mag McCue, 
An' she ees 'Mericana, too! 
Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mebbe so, 
You weell no calla me so slow 
Eef soni' time you can looka see 
How she ees com' an' flirt weeth me. 
Most evra two, t'ree day, my frand, 
She stop by dees peanutta-stand 
An' smile an' mak' da googla-eye 
An' justa look at me an' sigh. 
An' alia time she so excite' 
She peeck som' fruit an' taka bite. 
O! my, she eesa look so sweet 
I no care how much fruit she eat. 
Me? I am cool an' mak' pretand 
I want no more dan be her frand; 
But een my heart, you bat my life, 
I theenk of her for be my wife. 
ii6 



DA 'MERICANA GIRL. 

To-day I theenk: "Now I weell see 
How moocha she ees mash weeth me," 
An' so I speak of dees an' dat, 
How moocha playnta mon' I gat. 
How mooch I makin' evra day 
An' w'at I spand an' put away. 
An' den I ask, so queeck, so sly: 
"You theenk som' pretta girl weell try 
For lovin' me a leetla beet?" — 
O! my! she eesa blush so sweet! — 
"An' eef I ask her lika dees 
For geevin' me a leetla keess, 
You s'pose she geeve me wan or two?'* 
She tal me: "Twanty-t'ree for you!" 
An' den she laugh so sweet, an' say: 
"Skeeddoo! Skeeddoo!" an' run away. 

She like so mooch for keessa me 

She gona geeve me twanty-t'ree! 

I s'pose dat w'at she say — "skeeddoo" — 

Ees alia same "I lova you." 

Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mebbe so 

You weell no calla me so slow! 



117 



FAINT HEART. 

I WONDER if she knows how much 

My heart cries out for her dear heart. 

I wonder if she's felt the touch, 
The joyous thrill, the bitter smart 
Of Cupid's dart. 

I wonder. 

I wonder what she'll say to me 
When I have told my tale to-night. 

O! will it be my fate to be 
Transported to the sun-kissed height 
Of sheer delight? 

I wonder. 

I wonder if I'll tell my tale 
At all! I've often tried before. 

By Jove! I feel my courage fail, 
And here, a timid mouse once more, 
On past her door 
I wander. 



i8 



DA LEETLA BOY. 

Da spreeng ees com'; but O! da joy 

Eet ees too late! 
He was so cold, my leetla boy, 

He no could wait. 

I no can count how many week. 
How many day, dat he ees seeck; 
How many night I seet an' hold 
Da leetla hand dat was so cold. 
He was so patience, O! so sv/eet! 
Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet; 
An' all he evra ask ees w'en 
Ees gona com' da spreeng agen. 
Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, 
He see, across da alleyway, 
Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere 
Ees raise her window for da air, 
An' put outside a leetla pot 
Of— w'at-you-call?— forgat-me-not. 
So smalla flower, so leetla theeng! 
But steell eet mak' hees hearta sing: 
"O! now, at las', ees com' da spreeng! 
119 



„-^«4^ 




DA LEETLA BOY. 121 

Da leetla plant ees glad for know 
Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow. 
So, too, I am grow warm and strong.'* 
So, Hka dat he seeng hees song. 
But, ah! da night com' down an' den 
Da weenter ees sneak back agen, 
An' een da alley all da night 
Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white. 
An' cover up da leetla pot 
Of — w'at-you-call? — forgat-me-not. 
All night da leetla hand I hold 
Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold! 

Da spreeng ees com'; but O! da joy 

Eet ees too late! 
He was so cold, my leetla boy, 
J He no could wait. 



BALLADE OF FAMILY NAMES. 

Change is the order in man's estate, 

Times have changed and the customs, too; 
Everything now must be up-to-date, 

Things old-fashioned will never do. 

Even the names that our fathers knew — 
Jonas, Zachary, Zebedee — 

Fashion adjures us we must eschew. 
What will the names of To-morrow be? 

Patronymics with frills ornate, 

Out of the roots of the old names grew. 
"Kathryn" cooed in the arms of "Kate," 

"Hugo" lisped at the knees of "Hugh." 

Nursery walls of the wealthy few 
Rang with titles of high degree. 

All affecting the blood that's blue — 
[What will the names of To-morrow be? 

122 



BALLADE OF FAMILY NAMES. 123 

Greater changes have come of late; 

Even these new names fade from view. 
Wife and husband no more debate 

Titles fitting their infant crew. 

Even the infants lie perdue, 
"Fido," "Rover" and "Tige"— Ah! me, 

These are the names that the maids halloo. 
What will the names of To-morrow be? 

ENVOY. 

Man, it is sad, but alas! it's true, 

Fashion's killing your family tree. 
If but a little bark's left to you. 

What will the names of To-morrow be? 



DA STYLEESHA LADY. 

I TAL you w'at, you oughta see 
Carlotta, dat's my girl, w'en she 
Ees feex' for holiday. I guess 
You nevva see sooch styleeshness. 
She gotta yallow seelka skirt 
Ees look so fine you theenk ees wort* 
'Bout twanty dollar, mebbe more, 
Eef you gon* buy eet een da store. 
So, too, she gotta purpla wais' 
Dat's treem' weeth pretta yallow lace, 
An' beega golda breasta-peen 
Ees steeckin' ondraneat' her cheen. 
Eh? Wait, my frandl On toppa dat 
She got da beega redda hat 
Weeth coupla featha, brighta green, 
An* whita rosa een baytween. 
Da redda, whita, green, you see, 
Ees lika flag of Italy! 
124 



DA STYLEESHA LADY. 125 

Ha! w'at you theenka dat for style? 
Ah! yes, my frand, eet mak* you smile; 
You can eemagine, den, of me, 
How proud I smile w'en first I see. 
You can baylieve how proud I feel 
For walkin' out weeth her; but steell 
I gatta — w'at you call — "deestress" 
Baycause for all dees styleeshness. 
You see, w'en she ees look so sweet 
I 'fraid for let her on da street. 
I justa feela scare* dat som* 
Beeg reecha man ees gona com' 
An' see how styleesh she can be. 
An' steala her away from me. 



ALMOST. 

"There stands the parson's house," he said. 
The maiden hung her modest head, 
Lest he who thus was moved to speak 
Should note the blush that dyed her cheek. 
The moonlit fields, the sky above, 
Were mutely eloquent of love; 
And love surcharged the ambient air 
Breathed in by this young rustic pair. 
With beating hearts, across the road, 
They saw the minister's abode. 
The study lamp a welcome gleamed, 
And, through the summer twilight, seemed 
Inviting them to near the door. 
"There stands the parson's house!" Once more 
His fervid thoughts broke forth in speech. 
Then silence, thrilling each to each, 
Surrounded them and held them mute. 
Far-off they heard an owlet hoot 
126 



ALMOST. 

"To whit! to woo!" The maiden's heart 
Was warm for him, but hers the part 
To modestly await the word 
That she in fancy oft had heard, 
And which, instinctively she knew, 
Was trembling on his tongue. He, too, 
Was conscious of his own love's strength, 
And meant to speak. He said, at length: 
"There stands the parson's house, and there 
His hand a-tremble cleft the air — 
"Is where it used to stand!" And then 
He lea ner down the road again. 



127 



CAREY, THE KILL-JOY. 

If ye iver see Timothy Carey 

Jisht trust to the speed o' yer heels. 
Take warnin' from Malachy Cleary — 

That's me, an' I know how it tee's 
If ye're bint on revivin' yer nature 

Wid innocint pleasure, me boy. 
Get out o' the way o' this crayture-— 

His thrade is the killin' o' Joy. 

Now, wan day whin I sat at me dinner, 

Wid hunger enough an' to spare. 
In walks this same gloomy ould sinner 

An' leans on the back o' me chair. 
*'Come an' jine me," sez I; 'T'd be hatin* 

Mesel' fur the glutton I am 
To deny ye this taste o' good 'atin' — 

'Tis luscious b'iled cabbage an' ham!" 
"Man alive! are ye crazy?" sez Carey, 

An* frowns in his soberest way, 
128 



CAREY, THE KILL-JOY. 

"Shure an' have ye furgot, Misther Cleary, 
That this is a fasht-day th'-day?" 

An' wid that the ould joy-kilHn' sinner 
Jisht turned on his heel an' wint out, 

An' he left me me illigant dinner 

Like ashes, stone-cowld, in me mout'. 

'Twas a sin o' me, bein' forgetful; 

I should have remimbered the day. 
But I couldn't help feelin' regretful 

To see me feast fadin' away; 
For 'twas not for me soul's sake that Carey 

Shpoke up, but 'twas jisht to annoy. 
*Tis his nature that's mane an' conthrary — 

His thrade is the killin' o' joy. 



129 



A LESSON IN POLITICS. 

I NO care for gattin' meex' 

Een dees Ceety politeecs. 

I no gatta vote, an' so 

I no weeshin' mooch to know 

W'eech side right an' w'eech side wrong; 

I no bother mooch so long 

Dey no bother mooch weeth me — 

I jus' want do beez'ness, see? 

I no like poleecaman 
Com' to dees peanutta-stan', 
Like he do most evra day. 
Jus' for talka deesa way: 
"Wal, my frand, I tal you w'at. 
Politeecs ees gattin' hot. 
Don't you mind all deesa queer 
Talka 'bout da 'Graft' you hear. 
Notheeng een eet!" (Here he tak* 
Bigga pieca geenger cak'.) 
"Dees 'Reforma' mak' me seeck! 
Sucha foolish theengs dey speak! 
130 



A LESSON IN POLITICS. 131 

All dees 'graft' ees een deir eye." 
(Now he taka pieca pie.) 
"I been een dees politcecs 
Seexa year an' know da treecks. 
But I tal you I ain't met 
Any kinda grafta yet." 
(Here he taka two banan'.) 
"Evra publeec office man 
Worka for a salary 
Jus' da sama lika me. 
We no want no more dan dat — 
Jus' contant weeth w'at we gat." 
(Den he tak' weeth botha hand 
Som' peanutta,) "So, my frand, 
Don't baylieva all dees queer 
Talka 'bouta 'graft' you hear." 

Nutta, caka, pie, banan', 
All for wan poleecaman! 
Mebbe ees no "grafta" — say! 
W'at ees "grafta," anyway? 



MISTLETOE AND HOLLY. 

The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls. 

Red berries hath the holly. 
Remember, all ye modest girls, 
The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls, 
And when it hangs above your curls. 

Away with melancholy! 
The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls, 
Red berries hath the holly. 

Since mistletoe is hard to find, 

We do not need it, Mollie. 
O! do, I beg of you, be kind; 
Since mistletoe is hard to find, 
Pretend that you are color-blind 

And kiss beneath this holly. 
Since mistletoe is hard to find. 

We do not need it, Mollie. 



132 



THE IRISH NATIONAL BIRD. 

Good luck to the Aigle, America's bird, 

That stands for the land o' the free! 
Faix, I'm not the wan to be sayin' a word 

That'd ruffle its feathers. Not me! 
I'm proud o' the bird as I'm proud o* the land, 

An' glad to be under its wing, 
But there is another bird aiqually grand 

Whose praises I'm wishful to sing. 
Now let ye not pucker yer face wid a smile, 

*Tis soberest truth that we've got 
A national bird in the Emerald Isle 

That's aisily king o' the lot! 

Aye! "national bird." He is certainly that. 

Though others may claim him at times. 
He's busiest most wid the fortunes of Pat 

At home an' in far-away climes. 
An', faix, 'tis the Irish that love him the best 

An' welcome his favors the most; 
The man's not true Irish that has him for guest 

Widout feelin' proud to be host. 
He seeks out the Irish raygardless of place — 

At home or abroad in New York — 
So here's to the National Bird of the Race! 

Here's "hip, hip, hurrah!" for the stork! 
133 




HANDICAPPED. 

Eef I could talka 'Merican 
Like w'at I can Italian, 
So stronga langwadge eet would be 
You would be scare' for joke weeth me. 
134 



HANDICAPPED. 

Een Italy I am so queeck 

For theenk of sassy theengs to speak, 

Wen som' wan makin' fun weeth me, 

Dat nexta time dey let me be. 

Da professor! from da schocl 

Som' time was try for mak' me fool; 

Ah! wal, dey find, you bat my life, 

My tongue ccs sliarpa like da knife. 

So, evra wan was 'fraid weeth me 

Wen I am home, ecn Napoli. 

But een New Yorka Ceety here 

Ees deeflerant; an' eet ees queer! 

Da streeta keed, so tough, so small. 

He ccs no scare' wcct'.i me at all. 

He talk to me so sharp, so queeck 

My tongue ees gat too twist' for speak; 

He mak' da face an' laugh, an' den 

Ees gat me tangla up agen. 

Wen he ees two, t'rcc blocks away, 

I theenk of som'theeng sharp to say 

Dat mak' heem stop from be so tough- 

Eef I have say eet queeck enough. 

Wal, mebbe eet ees better so, 
Baycause ccf sucha keed could know 
How sharpa tongue ees een my head 
He be so scare' he droppa dead! 



135 



BALLADE OF THE POOR TOURIST. 

At home or in far-away climes, 

Wherever the tourist may stray, 
He must look to his quarters and dimes 

To keep them from melting away. 

One hates to appear like a jay, 
So into his pocket he dips, 

Such scorn do the servants display 
For the fellow who never gives tips. 

The magnate, the maker of rhymes, 
The "poor devil author," and they 

Whose money-bags jingle like chimes. 
Are marked as legitimate prey= 
Have little or much as you may. 

The food and drink passing your lips 
Claim toll. O! the outlook is gray 

For the fellow who never gives tips. 
136 



BALLADE OF THE POOR TOURIST. 137 

We need a reformer at times, 

A man of true courage, to stay- 
Society's foibles and crimes, 

And keep us from getting too gay; 

One needs to be brave to say "Nay" 
To the porter who handles his grips, 

So there really is something to say 
For the fellow who never gives tips. 

ENVOY. 

Good Fellows! We grumble, but pay, 

Like lords, for our holiday trips. 
But come, let us twine a bouquet 

For the fellow who never gives tips. 



THE FIGHTING RACE. 

I've been readin' the papers 

And vvatchin' the capers 
Of Russian and Jap on the land and the sea. 

And it's got me to guessin' 

Why some names is missin' 
That should be conspickyus where fightin's so free. 

Shure! where are the Reillys, 

The Caseys and Kileys, 
And all of the rest of the Macs and the O's? 

There was never real fightin' 

Or wrongs to be rightin' 
But some o' thim byes 'd be strikin' their blows. 

Now the longer I ponder 

The struggle out yonder, 
Where the Jap and the Russian are flirtin' wid Fame, 

The more I'm decidin' 

The Irishman's hidin' 
Behind the quare front of a haythenish name. 

If ye read of "Patriski" 

Or "Michelkomiski" 
Ye will know the3^'re not Russian at all, if ye're wise, 

And the Jap "Tomohara" 

Or *'Teddimagara" 
Are simply good Connaught men there in disguise. 
138 



PADRE DOMINEEC. 

Padre Domineec McCann 
He ees great beeg Irish man. 

He ees growla w'en he speak, 
Like he gona go for yon 
Jus' for bnsta you in two. 

My! he talk so rough, so queeck, 
You weell weesha you could be 
Som'where elsa w'en you see 

Padre Domineec. 

Padre Domineec McCann 
Stop at dees peanutta-stan' 

W'en my leetla boy ees seeck; 
Talk so rough he mak' me cry, 
Say ees besta boy should die 

So he go to Heaven queeck! 
He ees speak so cold to me 
Nevva more T wanta see 

Padre Domineec. 
139 



I40 



PADRE DOMINEEC. 

Den gran' doctor com'. Ees queer! 
Wen I ask who sand heem here, 

He jus' smile an' weell no speak 
Only justa for to say: 
*'You no gotta cent to pay, 

I gon' feex dees boy dat's seeck.'* 
O! beeg-hearta man, an' truel 
I am gattin' on to you, 

Padre Domineecl 



A FANCY NICOTIAN. 

Time was, my love, ere you came as queen 

To this bachelor heart of mine, 
I bowed to the princess of Nicotine, 

Who dwelt in an amber shrine. 
And there, when I willed, her heart glowed red 

And her languorous spirit rose. 
And my soul followed where her soul led. 

Away from the world of prose, 
To a world rerisen from out of the shade 

Of ages passing belief, 
Where she was again a Delaware maid 

And I was a Huron chief. 



* 
141 



142 A FANCY NICOTIAN. 



I had made a journey to seek her hand, 

I had come from the inland seas, 
Far down to the Big Salt Water's strand 

Where clustered her tribe's tepees. 
And thither I brought a hundred pelts 

Of the beasts my arm had slain, 
And beaded garments and wampum belts, 

That my love-quest be not vain. 
Then her people said: "It is meet indeed! 

The eagle shall mate with the dove." 
O! their little hearts they were drunk with greed. 

But hers was big with love. 

When into my hand she slipped her own. 

And our souls thrilled each to each, 
My full heart clogged my throat like a stone 

And robbed my tongue of speech. 
But faith burns fervid and hope is high 

In the heart of a loving maid. 
And reading but joy in her lover's eye 

She follows him, unafraid. 
Beasts of the forest there were, and men, 

To harry our path with strife, 
But her love gave me the strength of ten. 

We were masters of love and life. 



A FANCY NICOTIAN. 

An this, my love, was before you came 

To brighten this life of mine. 
But still I dream when the touch of flame 

Enkindles that amber shrine; 
And the fragrant spirit of Nicotine, 

In circles my head above. 
Discloses ever the self-same scene, 

The picture of world-old love, 
That v/orld rerisen from out of the shade 

Of ages passing belief; 
But now it is thou art the Delaware maid 

When I am the Huron chief. 



143 



UN LAZZARONE. 

So lazy man I nevva see 
Like Joe Baratt' een Napoli. 
You no could mak' heem work at all; 
Een Napoli he w'at you call 
**Un lazzarone"; dat'sa "bum." 
No gotta job, no gotta home, 
No gotta weesh for maka mon\ 
But jus' for seetin' een da sun. 
So lazy, good-for-notheeng, Ol 
Da worsta wan ees deesa Joe. 
You say "Gelato, Joe?" to heem — 
"Gelato" ees da same "ice-cream" — 
He ope' hees eyes a leetla beet 
Baycause he ees so fond of eet, 
An' den he ope' hees mout' so wide 
An' wait for you to put eenside. 
He weell no tak' da deesh of cream. 
But so you gona feeda heem! 
So lazy man I nevva see 
Like Joe Baratt' een Napoli 1 
144 



UN LAZZARONE. 145 

I no can tal how eet should be, 

But deesa Joe he cross da sea 

An' com' Noo York las' Fall, you know, 

Wen evratheeng ees ice an' snow. 

Ees nevva so disgusta man 

Like Joe Baratt' w'en he ees Ian'. 

O! my! he sheever, shake an' sneeze, 

An' he mus' dance for keep from freeze. 

So lively man I nevva see 

Like Joe Baratt' from Napoli! 

An' now he work for stevedore 

Like w'at he nevva do bayfore, 

Baycause he needa mon', so he 

Can gat back home een Napoli, 

For sleepin' een da sunshine w'en 

Da weenter-time ees com' agen. 

So lively man you newa see 

Like Joe Baratt' from Napoli. 



BEDFELLOWS. 

Ain't no one so glad as me 
When they's lady-company 
Comes to visit us an' stay 
All that night until it's day. 
Ain't much sleepin'-room at all 
In our house — it's made so small- 
But my Pa he'll always 'low 
We kin "double-up somehow." 
'Nen when all my prayers is said 
Ma she tucks me into bed 
'Way 'way over on one side. 
'Nen I feel real satisfied 
To be sleepy an' to go 
Right spang off, because I know 
When I wake fust thing I'll see 
Will be Pa in bed with me. 
146 



BEDFELLOWS. 147 

'Nen for fun! I tell you what, 
'At's the time I have a lot. 
I jist crawl on Pa an' shake 
His ole head till he's awake. 
Fust he'll lay real still an' play 
He's asleep an' goin' to stay. 
'Nen he'll raise up in the air. 
Growl an' cut up like a bear 
Come to eat me up, an' I 
Laugh an' squeal an' yell. O my! 
We jist run things, me an' Pa, 
Havin' lots o' fun, till Ma, 
In the next room, sez: "You boys 
Best git dressed an' quit that noise." 
I wisht ever}'- night 'at we 
Might have lady-company. 



THOSE DIRTY LITTLE FINGERS. 

From the moment he could stand alone and toddle 

Across the bed-room floor from chair to chair, 
There was never any respite for his mother; 

He was getting into mischief everywhere. 
There were soinersaults distracting down the stairway, 

And tumbles ofif the sofa, to be sure, 
And the bumps he got were really quite terrific, 

But none a mother's kisses couldn't cure. 
He'd a most plebeian fondness for the kitchen, 

Whose precincts were his favorite retreat. 
And the coal-hod held for him a fascination. 

For he seemed to think its contents good to eat. 
But the thing that caused his mother's greatest worry, 

And made her ply her house-cloth o'er and o'er, 
Was his subsequent invasion of the parlor 

With his grimy little fingers on the door. 
148 



THOSE DIRTY LITTLE FINGERS. 149 

How the whiteness of the paint was desecrated 

By those dirty little digits every day; 
Though his weary mother wept and begged and scolded 

He pursued the even tenor of his way. 
It was evident that he was only happy 

When his fingers held their share and more of dirt; 
And the only thing he loathed was soap and water, 

And O! my goodness gracious! how that hurt. 
But it hurts us now to contemplate the cleanness 

Of everything about this quiet place; 
All the finger-marks that used to mar the wood-work 

Have disappeared, nor left the slightest trace. 
For the last of them were wiped away last summer, 

Glad summer that is gone forevermore! 
We are lonely, Lord, and hungering to see him, 

With his grimy little nn^^ers on the door. 



DA YOUNGA 'MERICAN. 

I, mysal', I feela strange 

Een dees countra. I can no 
Mak' mysal' agen an' change 

Eento 'Merican, an' so 
I am w'at you calla me, 

Justa "dumb ole Dago man," 
Alia same my boy ees be 

Smarta younga 'Mericaii. 
Twalv' year ole! but alia same 

He ees learna soocha lot 
He can read an' write hees name — 

Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! 

He no talk Italian; 

He say: "Dat's for Dagoes speak, 
I am younga 'Merican, 

Dago langwadge mak' me seeck." 
Eef you gona tal heem, too. 

He ees "leetla Dago," my! 
He ees gat so mad weeth you 

He gon' ponch you een da eye. 
151 



152 DA YOUNG A 'M ERIC AN. 

Mebbe so you gona mak' 

Fool weeth heem — an' mebbe not. 

Queeck as flash he sass yon back; 
Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! 

He ees moocha 'shame' for be 

Meexa weeth Italian; 
He ees moocha 'shame' of me — 

I am dumb ole Dago man, 
Evra time w'en I go out 

Weetha heem I no can speak 
To som'body. "Shut your mout'," 

He weell tal me pretta queeck, 
**You weell geeve yoursal' away 

Talkin' Dago lika dat; 
Try be 'Merican," he say — 

Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! 

I am w'at you calla me, 
Justa "dumb ole Dago man;" 

Alia same my boy ees be 
Smarta younga 'Merican. 



NIGHT IN BACHELOR'S HALL. 

They've gone away! It seems a year, 
Aye! weeks of years, since they were here; 
And yet it was but yesterday 
I kissed them when they went away, 
Away from all the scorching heat 
That grips this brick-walled city street. 
And it was I who bade them go, 
Though she, dear heart, protested so, 
And vowed I'd find no joy at all, 
Nor any peace, in Bachelor's Hall. 
I laughed at that, but she was right; 
I never knew a sadder night 
Than this, while thus I tread, alone. 
These silent halls I call my own. 
I never thought this place could change 
So utterly and seem so strange. 
The night is hot, and yet a chill 
Pervades the house; it is so still. 
153 



154 NIGHT IN BACHELOR'S HALL. 

I miss the living atmosphere 

That comforts me when they are here; 

I miss the sigh, long-drawn and deep, 

The music of refreshing sleep. 

That undulates the gentle breast 

Of weary motherhood at rest. 

And in the unaccustomed gloom 

That shrouds the small adjoining room 

I miss the moans, the muffled screams. 

Of childhood troubled in its dreams. 

And is this all? Nay! more I miss 

The strong, heart-thrilling joy. the bliss 

Of warding, with protecting arm, 

Between these precious hearts and harm. 

O ! sing your song, all ye who roam. 

Your wistful song of "Home, Sweet Home,' 

But, though unhappy is your lot, 

You will not find a sadder spot 

In all the world than Home, when they 

Who make it Home have gone away. 



THE INDOMITABLE CELT. 

Although the joy's denied to me 

This blessed "Patrick's Day" 
To be where I would wish to be 

And whistle Care away, 
My mem'ry lives within me still; 

So I may close my eyes 
And fancy I can feel the thrill 

Of spring from Irish skies, 
And make myself believe to-day 

I'm off with my colleen 
To Clogher's, where the pipers play 

"The Wearing of the Green." 

It's cold and drear in this far land, 

And winter's skies are gray. 
And there's no sign that spring's at hand 

This drear St. Patrick's Day. 
But though no shamrocks brave the air 

Of this new home of mine, 
I've found a bit of green to wear — 

This sprig of Northern pine. 
So I'll be joyful as I may. 

And dream of my colleen 
And Clogher's, where the pipers play 

"The Wearing of the Green." 
155 



DA FAM'LY MAN. 

I ain' gon' gatta mad so queeck 

Like w'at I use' to do. 
I gon' geeve up dees ogly treeck 

Of speakin' swear-words, too. 
An' now w'en com'sa bada keed 

For call me "Dago!" — wal, 
I ain' gon' do like w'at I deed 

An' tal heem "gotohalf" 
Eef som' one com' for makin' fool 

Weeth me, I show dem how 
1 jus' can smile an' keepa cool — 

1 gon' be good man now. 

I am too prouda man to-day 

For wanta swear an' fight, 
An' I no care w'at bad keeds say 

For makin' me excite'. 
So eef som'body com' an' try 

For makin' fool weeth me, 
I justa gon' be dignifi' 

Like fam'ly man should be. 
Las' night da doctor bring my wife 

A baby girl. Dat's how 
T am so proud. You bat my life, 

I gon' be good man now! 
156 



DA FIGHTIN' IRISHMAN. 

Irishman he mak' me seeck! 
He ees gat excite' so queeck. 

An' so queeck for fightin', too. 
An', baysides, you nevva know 
How you gona please heem. So 

W'ata deuce you gona do? 

Wen I work een tranch wan day 
Irish boss he com' an' say: 
**Evra wan een deesa tranch, 
I no care eef he ees Franch, 
Anglaice, Dago, Dootch or w'at, 
Evra wan he musta gat 
Leetla pieca green to show 
For da San Patricio. 
Dees ees Irish feasta day. 
Go an' gat som' green!" he say, 
"An' eef you no do eet, too, 
I gon' poncha head on you!" 
So I gat som' green to show 
For da San Patricio. 
157 



158 DA FIGHTIN' IRISHMAN. 

Bimeby, 'nudder Irishman 
He ees com' where I am stan'. 
An' he growl at me an' say: 
"Wat you wearin' dat for, eh? 
Mebbe so you thecnk you be 
Gooda Irishman like me. 
Green ees jus' for Irishman, 
No for dumb Eyetalian! 
Tak' eet ofif!" he say, an', my! 
He ees ponch me een da eye! 

Irishman he mak' me seeck! 
He ees gat excite' so queeck, 

An' so queeck for fightin', too, 
An', baysides, you nevva know 
How you gona please heem. So 

W'ata deuce you gona do? 



THE WEDDING GUEST, 

Whenever you're a wedding guest 

Be jolly as you can, 
Endeavoring your level best 

To be a "funny man." 
Don't get the notion in your head 

That you were bidden there 
To see an earnest couple wed. 

And merely wish the pair 
All peace and joy along the way 

That they have just begun. 
O! no, be gay! Remember, pray, 

A wedding's simply fun. 

A bride and groom are often prone 

To take a sober view 
Of life and duties like their own, 

And so it's up to you 
To counteract this sense of gloom 

With your peculiar mirth. 
So just bombard that bride and groom 

With jokes for all your worth. 
Displeasure they, of course, may show 

At some things that are done; 
Don't mind them, though; they ought to know 

A wedding's simply fun. 
15$ 



l6o THE WEDDING GUEST. 

You may begin by throwing rice 

And shoes, and after that 
An ancient q.qq or two are nice 

And come in very pat. 
Of course their carriage should be decked 

With placards weird and queer; 
To this the bridegroom may object. 

But bang him on the ear! ' 
If after that the silly wight 

Should still kick up his heels. 
Explode a stick of dynamite 

Beneath the carriage wheels. 
This move will take them by surprise^ 

If it is neatly done. 
And surely make them realize 

A wedding's simply fun. 



THE SPOILED CHILD. 

Wen Gran'-pa takes me on his knee 
I'm jist as glad as I kin be; 
'Cause he's the bestest friend I got, 
An' in his pockets they's a lot 
Of candies, sugar-cakes an' things 
Like dear ole Gran'-pa always brings. 
An' he'll say: "Now, my little dear, 
Let's see w'at's in this pocket here;" 
And I put in my hand and take 
Some candy out or else some cake. 
'Nen Gran'-pa laughs, an' so do I; 
He'll play he's s'prised an' say: "O! My! 
1 wonder how that got in there. 
Now w'at do I git fur my share?" 
I laugh, an' climb right up an' kiss 
Him where his tickly whiskers is. 
He hugs me tight, an' sez: "Oho! 
Here's jist the goodest boy I know." 
An' I am good as I kin be 
Wen Gran'-pa takes me on his knee. 
i6i 



X62 THE SPOILED CHILD, 

When Papa takes me on his knee 
I ain't so glad as I might be. 
He ain't as nice as Gran*-pa wuz, 
For he don't do like Gran'-pa does. 
He on'y does it w'en he's mad. 
An' w'en he sez I'm awful bad. 
He don't like Gran'-pa's "carryin's-on/* 
Fur onct w'en Gran'-pa'd been an' gone 
He told Ma: "Say, it drives m^ wild 
The way your Pa jist sp'iles that child,'' 
An' 'nen he maked a grab fur me 
An' upside-downed me on his knee, 
An' says, "Now if it's in the wood 
I'll see if I can't make you good." 
An' w'en Pa let me oflf his knee 
I promised him how good I'd be. 



DA STYLEESHA WIFE. 

Giuseppe, da barber, ees catcha da wife! 

O! my, you weell laugh w'en you see w'at he gat. 
She gotta da face ees so sharp like da knife — 

He say "ees no styleesh for face to be fat." 
Her fingers, so skeenny, ees notheeng but bone; 

You 'fraid dey weell bust w'en you go for shak' han*. 
He say: "Dat'sa sign she ees vera high-tone'. 

She no gotta ban's like two bonch da banan'." 
Ha! w'at you theenk dat 
For talk een hees hat? 
W'at good eesa wife eef she don'ta be fat? 

Giuseppe he tal me I no ondrastan* 

Da 'Merican lady so gooda like heem; 
He tal me hees wife ees da "swell 'Merican," 

An' looka so styleesh baycause she ees "sleem." 
I tal heem da "styleeshness" notta so good 

For keepa da house an' for helpin' her mooch 
To nursa da baby an' carry da wood. 

He say: "I no care eef she nevva do sooch.'* 
Ha! w'at you theenk dat 
For talk een hees hat? 
W'at good eesa wife eef she don'ta be fat? 
163 



THE KETTLE'S SONG OF HOME. 

AiN*T berry menny people w'at'Il listen to a niggah, 

Or 'low dey's enny sense in w'at he say, 
But I gwine to gib de 'sperience ob mah feelin's, an' I 
figgah 
Dat dey's quite a smaht ob people t'inks mah way. 
Wen a man begins a-shoutin' 'bout de good t'ings dat 
he's missin', 
Kickin' kase dey ain't no fo'tune in his job, 
Let 'im go home to his kitchen, an' set down a while an* 
listen 
To de singin' ob de kittle on de hob. 

De rich man kin inhabitate a palace ef he wishes, 

Wif chiny-war' an' pictuahs on de wall, 
An' kin lay on velvet sofers an' eat off'n golden dishes, 

But I wouldn' swap mah kitchen fo' it all. 
Fo' hit wouldn' seem laik home to me, but 'ceptin' I 
could listen, 
A-puffin' at de backy in mah cob, 
While de good Lawd seemed a-speakin' ob a home-like 
kind o' blessin* 
Frough de singin* ob de kittle on de hob. 
164 



TO THE ATHEIST. 

Say! you gat to hal weeth your talk! 

I gotta da troubla my own. 
You please me by taka da walk — 

I wanta for seet here alone. 
Eh? Wat? Yes, I s'pose I am dumb. 

An' so you no maka me wise 
No matter how moocha you com' 

For tryin'" to open my eyes. 
Jus' s'posa my eyes dey are blind — 

So blind like you theenk dem to be — 
More beautiful theengs dey can find 

Dan w'at you are able to see. 
You want I should tal you da sight 

I see w'en I seet here alone? 
You wanta for see? Alia right, 
. I geeve you my eyes for your own. 
Com', look! dere is beautiful girl, 

So sweeta, so good an' so true; 
Ah! you are a keeng of da worl' 

To know dat she smila for you. 
165 



l66 TO THE ATHEIST, 

Now, see! she ees geevin' her han* 

Forevra da wifa to be 
To "no-good-for-notheenga" man — 

Dat no gooda man, eet ees me! 
Now — presto! — da peectura change. 

Da beautiful girl eesa gon'; 
Da man ees look olda an' strange 

An' he ees jus' seettin' alone. 
But steell you can see weeth hees eyes. 

So blind, like you say, an' so dumb. 
An angela up in da skies 

Dat smila an' wait teell he com'. 
You sneer; you no gotta belief. 

Ycu tal me we die an' we be 
Like dogs, an* you com' lika thief 

For steala my faitha from mc. 
Wal, even eef you no be dam. 

An' eef w'at I see ees no true, 
I radder be dumb like I am 
Dan wisa beeg foola like youl 



AT HOME. 

At home to-night, alone with Dot, 
I loaf my soul and care not what 

In worlds beyond may come or go. 

Four walls, a roof, to brave the snow. 
Suffice to bound this Eden spot. 

Dot has her sewing things; I've got 
My pipe, a glass of something hot 
And Dot herself. The world's aglow, 
At home to-night. 

As lovers in some golden plot 

The poet weaves of Camelot, 
We feel apart from earth. We know 
The servant in the hall below 

Will say to all who call we're not 
At home to-night. 



167 




TO AN OLD LOVER. 

There is silvery frost on your hair, old boy, 

There are lines on your forehead, too; 
But your cjear eyes speak of the peace and joy 

That dwell in the heart of you. 
For the passing of youth you have no regret, 

No sighs for the summer gloam 
And the lovers' moon. They are with you yet 

In the light of the lamp at home. 

In your summer of youth, in that sunny hour 
That will cpme to you never again, 
168 



TO AN OLD LOVER. 



169 



When you wooed your love as the bee the flower, 

The sweets that you gathered then 
You have hived and stored for your later life. 

And your heart is the honeycomb — 
Ah! I've seen your face when you kissed your wife 

In the light of the lamp at home. 

O! you rare old lover! O! faithful knigl.t, 

With your sweetheart of long ago. 
You are many days from the warmth and light 

Of the summers you used to know; 
But you need not yearn for the glamor and gold 

Of the fields you were wont to roam — 
O! the light for the hearts that are growing old 

Is the light of the lamp at home. 







TREASURE-TROVE. 

There's a letter come this minute 

From across the boundin' sea, 
And it has a treasure in it 

That delights the soul of me. 
Not a shinin' bit o' gold 
Does this blessed letther hold, 
But a priceless gem as ancient as the world is old. 

'Tis meself, to-morrow mornin', 

Will be proud to let ye see 
This most precious gem adornin' 

Of the Sunday hat of me. 
'Tis a little sprig o' green 
Of the sort I've often seen 
My grandfather wearin' in his ould caubeen. 

Then here's to the trefoil, 

An' may it grow in free soil 
That knows not the dominion of a Saxon King or Queen; 

The Shamrock of old Erin! 

That the patriot's still wearin' 
Where the whole world may see it, in his ould caubeen. 



170 



THE LITTLE BOY. 

The little boy Jack was a Jack o' Hearts, 

For every one loved the lad, 
And the birds from near and foreign parts 

Were some of the friends he had. 
The man in the Moon was his friend at night. 

When little Jack's prayers were said, 
And his doting mother had dimmed the light 

And cuddled him up in bed, 
He'd lie and talk to his friend in the skies 

Through the casement open wide. 
And ask if the stars were not the eyes 

Of good little boys who had died. 

O! the Moon-Man laughed at this odd conceit 

Of his little boy friend on earth, 
And the wee stars, clustered about his feet. 

Just winked at his childish mirth. 
But once when the moon rose over the hill 

And shone on the cottage wall, 
The birds in the neighboring trees were still 

And a gloom hung over all. 
Then the Moon-Man wondered much of Jack, 

And he pondered it o'er and o'er, 
Till he saw two stars in the sky at his back 

That he never had seen before. 

171 



v./ 



iT^o: 



A SONG 'J'O ONE. 

If few are won to read my lays 
And offer me a word of praise, 

If there are only one or two 

To take my rhymes and read them through, 
I may not claim the poet's bays. 

I care not, when my Fancy plays 
Its one sweet note, if it should raise 
A host of listeners or few — 
If you are one. 

The homage that my full heart pays 
To Womanhood in divers ways, 

Begins and ends, my love, in you. 

My lines may halt, but strong and irue 
My soul shall sing through all its days. 
If you are won. 



173 



